HfraB 


SALLY    SALT 


UNIV.  OF  CALIF.  LIBRARY.  WW 


'  Bcrta  will  carry  you  like  a  bird." 


SALLY  SALT 


By 

MRS.  WILSON  WOODROW 


Author  ef 

THE  SILVER  BUTTERFLY 
TKIi  BEAUTY 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  BY 

DAVID  ROBINSON 


SYNDICATE    PUBLISHING    COMPANY 

NEW    YORK  LONDON 


COPYRIGHT  1912 
THE  BOBBS-MERRILL  COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


1  THE  SYMPHONY  OF  DAY                            .        .        .  1 

II  AN  OLD,  NEW  DREAM      ......  18 

III  A  CLOUD  IN  THE  SKY 34 

IV  BEYOND  THE  HILLS 4$ 

V  ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS 67 

VI  A  WILE  OF  SATAN 79 

VII  MRS.  KURD  GOES  HALVES 94 

VIII  STREATHAM  TELLS  A  STORY 109 

IX  MORE  OF  HILDA'S  SECRET 130 

X  HIRED  MAN  OR  HUSBAND?         ....  145 

XI  MRS.  HILL  FREES  HER  MIND     ....  162 

XII  MRS.  KURD'S  NEXT  MOVE 179 

XIII  TIGHTENING  THE  SCREWS 196 

XIV  BESIDE  THE  POPPY  TENTS                   .        .        .        ,210 
XV  WHISPERS  AND  GLIMPSES 221 

XVI  AUTUMN  WITHOUT  ANTHONY 235 

XVII  HILDA  MAKES  CONFESSION                 ....  253 

XVIII  THE  QUEST  OF  THE  ROAD 267 

XIX  ANTHONY'S  STRANGE  LETTER     .        .                .  283 

XX  LUCY  TAKES  COURAGE      .                         .                 .  297 

XXI  DAUGHTER  OF  DREAMS               312 

XXII  THE  HUNT  FOR  GRISSOM 324 

XXIII  ANTHONY  COMES  HOME    ....*.  339 


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SALLY   SALT 


SALLY  SALT 

CHAPTER   I 

THE    SYMPHONY   OF    DAY 

IT  was  barely  dawn  when  Sally  Salt  walked  across 
the  fields.  A  dim,  gray  world  still  in  its  night- 
dream  lay  all  about  her.  Trees  and  hills  were  color- 
less spaces  of  shadow,  meadows  sweeping  in  every 
direction  were  colorless  spaces  of  light ;  and  through 
the  waiting  silence  of  the  earth — consciousness  wak- 
ing, but  not  yet  sentient — the  musical,  monotonous 
ripple  of  the  river  reached  her,  unchanging,  un- 
hurrying,  unresting — timeless.  The  same  to-day  as 
a  million  years  ago,  and  the  same  through  to-mor- 
row's million  years. 

On  its  brink  Sally  paused  and  lifted  her  face,  for 
a  wind,  fresh  with  the  purity  of  the  dawn,  had  be- 
gun to  blow,  the  shadows  and  half-tones  merged 

i 


2  SALLY    SALT 

into  a  clear,  cold  spread  of  light  where  every  tree 
and  every  leaf  on  the  tree  was  defined  against  a  sky 
changing  like  an  opal.  A  bird  soared  from  the 
wheat,  singing;  the  sun  rose  from  the  hills;  the 
fields  of  young  corn  became  vividly  green,  the  wheat- 
fields  yellow.  Sally  stood  gazing  over  those  wide 
lagoons  of  grain  until  a  stronger  gust  blew  from  the 
sunrise  and  they  rippled  into  beautiful  brown 
shadows,  then  she  bent  her  head  a  little  and  seemed 
to  listen. 

The  air  was  full  of  countless,  mingling  sounds; 
the  whir  of  grasshopper  wings,  the  twittering  of 
little  birds,  the  soft,  immaterial  presence  of  the 
wind,  stealing  through  the  corn  and  fattening  grain 
with  creeping  feet  and  caressing  hands  and  singing 
its  faint,  sighing  song.  It  was  the  tuning  up  of  an 
innumerable  orchestra  for  the  glorious  Symphony 
of  Day. 

And  Sally,  as  she  stood  on  the  river's  brim,  the 
waves  of  the  cockle-starred  wheat  flowing  up  to  her, 
encompassing  her  waist  high,  was  herself  the  epit- 
ome of  the  harvest.  She  stood  straight  as  an 
Indian,  a  woman  a  little  above  medium  height  with 
a  deep  chest  and  slender  hips.  Her  red  hair  was 


THE    SYMPHONY   OF   DAY  3 

held  in  a  great  loop  high  on  her  head,  and  her  skin 
was  tanned  to  a  lovely,  mellow  brown  with  a  stain 
of  crimson  on  either  cheek,  rich  and  dusky  as  the 
bloom  of  a  peach.  Her  blue  eyes  were  at  once 
shrewd  and  reckless  and  warmly,  deeply  loving, 
while  the  prodigal  curves  of  her  red  mouth  were 
stayed  at  the  corners  by  sharply  defined  dimples  of 
laughter. 

The  tuning  was  over,  the  first  movement  of  the 
symphony  had  begun,  and  Sally  drew  a  long  breath 
and  wakened  like  the  earth,  her  mother.  The  sun 
rose  in  her  eyes;  a  song  swelled  in  her  heart;  her 
lips  parted  in  a  smile;  the  summer  seemed  to  glow 
through  her. 

"He's  walking  down  some  road  that  leads  to  me 
now,"  she  murmured.  "Maybe  it  will  be  to-day, 
maybe  it  will  be  to-morrow ;  but  it's  got  to  be  soon ; 
the  wheat's  ripe." 

She  drew  a  head  of  the  harsh,  bearded  grain  lov- 
ingly through  her  fingers ;  then  she  threw  back  her 
head  and  held  out  her  arms : 

"I'm  hearing  your  footsteps,  Anthony;  they're 
echoing  in  my  heart." 

Then,  sighing  and  smiling,  she  went  her  way, 


4  SALLY    SALT 

across  her  fields,  across  the  broad,  white  turnpike, 
through  the  orchard  toward  the  house,  which 
showed  in  glimpses  through  the  trees;  a  rambling, 
gray  farm-house  with  wide  porches.  As  Sally's  in- 
clination prompted,  she  added  to  it  a  wing,  a  room 
or  a  bow-window ;  but  now,  in  midsummer,  its  irreg- 
ularities were  softened,  almost  concealed,  by  the 
vines  in  whidi  it  was  embowered.  From  the  green 
lawn-spaces  before  it  rose  some  noble  old  trees,  with 
long,  drooping  branches,  while  at  the  side,  between 
the  house  and  the  orchard,  lay  an  old-fashioned 
garden,  bright  with  flowers. 

As  Sally  came  up  the  path,  a  little,  faded,  elderly 
woman,  who  sat  in  a  rocking-chair  on  the  porch, 
leaned  forward  and  peered  curiously  through  the 
vines. 

"Why,  Mis'  Salt,"  she  cried  in  a  thin,  quavering 
voice.  "Where  you  been?  It's  'most  breakfast 
time." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Sally  heartily.  "Please,  Mrs. 
Nesbit,  tell  Aunt  Mandy  to  hurry  it  up.  I'm 
hungry." 

As  Mrs.  Nesbit  passed  through  the  widely  opened 
hall  door  into  the  house,  drawing  her  crocheted 


THE   SYMPHONY   OF   DAY  5 

shawl  more  closely  about  her,  a  gay  voice  called 
"Sally"  from  an  upper  window  and  light  feet  came 
running  down  the  stairs.  Two  sleek,  lazy  cats, 
sleeping  in  the  sun,  rose,  arched  their  backs  and 
yawned;  an  old  dog  ran  about  the  corner  of  the 
house  and  down  the  path,  wagging  his  tail  in  wel- 
come. All  was  life  and  stir  and  movement;  Sally 
had  come. 

The  possessor  of  the  gay  voice  and  flying  feet 
sped  across  the  porch  and  over  the  lawn.  "A  sheaf 
of  letters  for  you,  Sally!"  cried  Lucy  Parrish,  as 
dainty  as  a  peach  blossom,  as  flitting  and  airy  as  a 
humming-bird,  twenty-four  years  old  and  looking 
sixteen  this  morning  in  her  pink  muslin  frock  with 
her  dark  hair  hanging  in  a  plait  down  her  back. 
Born  in  the  middle-west,  the  only  daughter  of 
wealthy  parents,  she  had,  while  scampering  over  the 
continent  a  few  years  before  with  a  chaperon  only 
a  shade  less  volatile  than  herself,  met  young  Parrish, 
also  an  American,  and  with  more  money  than  was 
good  for  him.  They  had  been  married  in  London 
a  month  or  two  later  without  the  customary  con- 
sultation of  friends.  On  the  whole,  the  marriage 
had  been  more  successful  than  Lucy's  relatives  had 


6  SALLY    SALT 

sighingly  and  head-shakingly  predicted ;  but  as  they 
continued  to  point  out,  not  without  a  show  of  rea- 
son, this  incursion  into  matrimony  was  of  a  too 
brief  duration  (young  Parrish  had  died  within  a 
twelvemonth)  adequately  to  refute  their  pessimistic 
prophecies.  Lucy  had  now,  quite  unexpectedly  and 
for  the  first  time,  after  her  usual  fashion  of  adopt- 
ing an  idea  and  acting  upon  it  simultaneously,  re- 
turned to  her  home  in  the  neighboring  town  of 
Yoctangee.  Her  parents  were  absent,  traveling  in 
Europe — she  was  fully  cognizant  of  this  fact,  by 
the  way,  but  it  was  lacking  in  significance  until  she 
saw  the  unoccupied,  boarded-up  house,  with  shut- 
tered windows  like  blank,  unseeing  eyes,  and  barred 
door  inhospitably  refusing  her  shelter.  Then,  in  a 
panic,  she  sought  her  old  friend,  Sally  Salt,  the 
mistress  of  "Buckeye  Farms,"  and  arranged  to 
spend  the  summer  with  her. 

"You  are  not  the  only  one  who  has  letters,"  said 
Lucy  gloomily,  as  Sally  caught  at  the  six  or  seven 
envelopes  and  ran  over  them,  quick  as  a  gambler 
shuffles  cards,  her  glance  devouring  each  postmark 
and  inscription,  her  irradiation  in  eclipse,  as  no 
rubber-stamped,  unfamiliar  name  suggested  a  pos- 


THE   SYMPHONY   OF   DAY  7 

sible,  paradisical  village  where  lingered  the  one  from 
whom  she  desired  words — the  one  who,  by  merely 
scrawling  characters  upon  an  envelope,  characters 
tersely  proclaiming  her  name  and  post-office,  could 
cause  her  eyes  to  gleam,  her  heart  to  beat  wildly, 
her  strong  brown  hands  to  tremble. 

"I've  had  a  letter  from  Anne  Heath,"  continued 
Lucy,  her  tone  expressing  an  aggrieved  protest 
against  what  she  evidently  regarded  as  a  sky-filling 
tragedy. 

"Oh,  Anne!"  Sally  turned  from  disappointment 
and  resolutely  considered  the  tragedy,  but  with  in- 
different tolerance.  "Anne's  all  right,  except  she's 
older  than  the  hills  and  thinks  she  knows  everything 
in  heaven  or  earth.  It's  her  last  year  in  college. 
But  let  her  come.  Why  not?" 

"I  knew  you  would  say  that.  You  have  no  sym- 
pathy in  your  soul ;  and  yet  think  of  it.  Think  of 
my  only  brother  having  a  daughter  like  Anne! 
People  do  not  know  that  he  is  nearly  twenty  years 
older  than  I,  and  she  is  my  niece — my  niece,  and  1 
not  twenty-five !  You  know  that  she  carefully,  very 
carefully,  never  fails  to  call  me  'aunt/ — and  still 
you  are  not  sorry  for  me."  Lucy  threw  out  her 


8  SALLY    SALT 

hands  as  if  casting  to  the  winds  this  statement  so 
incredible  that  her  mind  refused  to  harbor  it. 

"Not  a  mite,"  affirmed  Sally  tranquilly.  "I'm 
not  sorry  for  any  one  who  isn't  blind  or  sick-a-bed ; 
and  what  you  need,  Lucy  Parrish,  is  no  petting  nor 
coddling,  but  a  good  shaking.  Young — " 

"Young!"  interrupted  Lucy  scornfully.  "Twen- 
ty-five is  not  so  very  young — " 

"Young,"  repeated  Sally  firmly,  "and  rich  and  a 
pretty  doll,"  glancing  down  affectionately  at  the 
charming  figure  beside  her.  "Oh,  if  you  expect  to 
get  any  sympathy  out  of  me,  you'll  have  to  search 
some  time,  and  if  you  do  find  any,  you'll  have  to 
jerk  it  up  by  the  roots  when  I'm  napping.  I  won't 
give  you  any,  I  know;  and  as  for  that  lonely  bee 
you've  had  lately,  I'm  afraid  it  will  have  to  sting 
you  pretty  hard  before  you  are  willing  to  shake  it 
out  of  your  bonnet." 

"But  I  am  lonely,  Sally."  Lucy  was  indignant 
that  doubt  should  be  cast  upon  the  existence  of  her 
crumpled  roselcaf .  "Look  at  me !  All  alone  in  the 
world  with  Anne  for  my  only  relative,  on  this  side 
of  the  ocean,  anyway.  If  it  wasn't  for  you,  I'd 
die." 


THE    SYMPHONY   OF   DAY  9 

"I  guess  so!"  remarked  Sally  dryly.  "That  bee 
once  got  stuck  tight  in  my  bonnet.  I  too  had  only 
been  married  a  short  time  when  Henry,  my  husband, 
died.  Well,  I  had  enough — the  farm  he  left  me  and 
the  farm  father  had  left  me,  so  I  didn't  have  any- 
thing to  worry  about.  But  I  was  young  and  ter- 
ribly lonely,  and  every  time  I  would  look  in  the 
glass  that  bee  would  buzz  louder  and  louder,  and 
he'd  say:  'What's  the  use  of  looking  like  peaches 
and  cream  if  there's  no  one  to  tell  you  so?  What's 
the  use  of  being  young  and  a  woman  if  there's  no 
one  to  love  you  ?' ' 

Lucy,  wistfully  dejected,  with  drooping  mouth 
and  eyes  fixed  on  the  low,  blue  line  of  distant  hills, 
nodded  full  appreciation  of  the  lonely  bee's  disturb- 
ing sentiments. 

"Well,"  continued  Sally,  "it  was  just  about  that 
time  that  Clarence  and  his  mother  wanted  to  get 
summer  boarding,  and  at  first  it  seemed  an  answer 
to  prayer.  I  was  so  tired  of  my  own  society  that  I 
would  almost  have  welcomed  the  devil.  So  they 
came — and  you  observe  that  Mrs.  Nesbit  is  still 
with  me." 

"Oh,    Sally!     You    have    never   told   me    about 


io  SALLY    SALT 

Clarence.  What  was  he  like?"  Lucy  sank  down 
on  a  grass  plot  between  two  beds  of  Madonna  lilies 
and  tried  to  pull  Sally  down  beside  her.  But  Sally 
protested. 

"Now,  child,  I've  got  no  time  to  spin  yarns  for 
you.  It's  a  big  world,  Lucy,  and  there's  a  lot  to  do 
in  it ;  but  I  must  say  that  at  this  minute  I  don't  know 
that  I  could  put  the  time  in  any  better  than  doing  a 
little  weeding  right  here  in  your  heart  and  soul. 
Hand  me  that  trowel,  though;  I  might  as  well  be 
bedding  a  few  geraniums  at  the  same  time,"  her  eye 
falling  upon  a  neat  row  of  flowering  crimson  and 
pink  plants  ready  to  set  out. 

"But  tell  me  about  Clarence."  Lucy  was  appar- 
ently alarmed  at  the  prospect  of  a  soul-weeding. 

"H'm,  Clarence!  Oh,  yes,  Clarence."  Sally 
dug  vigorously  in  the  yielding  earth.  "Well,  he 
wrote  nature  poems  and  essays.  The  essays  always 
began,  'I  noticed  to-day  from  my  study  windows 
that  the  patch  of  snow  on  Farmer  Allen's  field  has 
melted,  and  that  the  willows  along  the  river  are 
assuming,'  et  cetera.  And  the  verses  were  always 
about  dryads  of  the  leafy  woods  harkening  to  the 
pipes  of  Pan.  Then  Clarence  birded,  too." 


THE   SYMPHONY   OF   DAY  11 

"He  what?" 

"Birded.  He  used  to  sling  a  field-glass  over  his 
shoulders,  stuff  his  pockets  full  of  note-books  and 
take  a  camera ;  and  then  we'd  go  out  and  sit  as  still 
as  mice  on  the  hillside,  and  presently  he'd  lift  his 
glass  and  say:  'H-s-ss-h!  There's  a  scarlet  tan- 
ager  flying  through  the  blue,'  or  'Ss-h,  in  yonder 
thicket  is  a  speckled  thrush.  Wait  till  I  look  at  my 
notes.'  Then  he'd  take  his  books  out  of  his  pockets 
and  turn  over  the  leaves,  and  finally  announce  as 
important  as  a  robin  that's  found  a  worm  in  the 
asphalt :  'That  speckled  thrush  is  three  days  earlier 
than  usual.' 

"Why,  Lucy,"  Sally  paused  carefully  to  lower  the 
roots  of  the  geranium  into  the  hole  she  had  just  pre- 
pared, "I'd  got  positively  ashamed  of  the  way  we 
used  to  follow  up  those  poor,  inoffensive  birds. 
Clarence  never  showed  the  least  respect  for  their 
privacy.  And  he  was  always  frightening  them  off 
their  nests  about  hatching  time  by  snapping  his 
camera  at  them." 

"Horrid  thing !"  commented  Lucy  indignantly. 

"The  artistic  temperament."  Sally  packed  the 
earth  loosely  about  her  plant.  "I  believe  that  is 


12  SALLY    SALT 

what  they  call  it.  I've  never  been  able  to  discover 
rightly  just  what  it  is ;  but  I  know  from  the  experi- 
ence I've  had  with  several  friends  who  claimed  to  be 
afflicted  with  it  that  it  goes  with  a  powerful  appe- 
tite. Clarence  would  sit  at  the  table  with  a  black 
silk  necktie  flowing  from  a  low-necked  shirt  and 
he'd  be  reading  away  so's  he  wouldn't  know  if  you 
dropped  the  stove-lid  on  the  cat,  and  all  the  while 
he'd  be  sort  of  idly  conveying  to  his  mouth  cup  after 
cup  of  coffee  and  more  muffins  than  Aunt  Mandy 
could  well  bake.  But  in  spite  of  his  appetite  he  was 
very  sickly,  and  I  was  so  sorry  for  him  that  we  al- 
most got  engaged. 

"You  see,  Lucy,  I  was  a  regular  'Miss  Busy'  in 
those  days.  Am  still,  I  suppose ;  but  then  I  was  one 
of  those  smart,  capable,  do-it-all  girls  who  always 
take  up  with  the  poor,  weak  brother.  Finally  Clar- 
ence got  really  sick,  and  his  mother,  you  know," 
with  a  backward  nod  at  the  little  old  lady  swaying 
to  and  fro  behind  the  vines  on  the  porch,  "his  mother 
had  no  force,  so  I  nursed  him  to  the  end.  Funny 
thing,  he  always  seemed  actually  pleased  at  his  being 
so  delicate — regarded  it  as  a  sure  proof  of  genius. 
There  were  times  on  his  death-bed,"  Sally  spoke 


THE   SYMPHONY   OF   DAY  13 

almost  pensively,  "when  I  literally  ached  to  spank 
Clarence." 

"Why,  Sally  Salt!"  Lucy's  tones  were  faintly 
scandalized.  "Didn't  you  nurse  him  to  the  very 
last?" 

"Please  God,  I  did,"  said  Sally  simply.  "If  you 
saw  a  little  sick  kitten  crawling  around  so  weak  on 
its  paws  that  it  could  hardly  stand  steady,  wouldn't 
you  tend  it  some?  Of  course.  Here,  hand  me  that 
portulaca,  Lucy.  Funny  thing.  I  never  was  one 
to  moon  over  books,  but  the  winter  Clarence  was 
sick  I  took  to  novels  as  some  people  do  to  drink. 
You  see,  he  needed  a  good  deal  of  care,  and  my  rest 
at  night  was  considerably  broken.  Before  that, 
when  I  chose  a  story,  it  would  be  about  a  sweet, 
titled  young  girl  who  moved  continually  through 
pleasures  and  palaces;  but  that  winter  I  craved 
stories  about  smugglers  and  burglars  and  murderers 
— any  one  who  was  taking  a  risk." 

"How  very  different  he  must  have  been  from 
Anthony  Streatham."  Lucy's  gaze  reflected  the 
blank  innocence  of  the  skies  above  her;  her  voice 
held  only  a  reflective  and  impersonal  comparison, 
and  yet,  at  the  mention  of  that  name,  Sally's  glance 


14  SALLY    SALT 

was  not  more  quick  than  the  deeper  peach-dye  on 
her  cheek. 

"Of  course."  There  was  a  touch  of  red-haired 
asperity  in  Sally's  voice.  "But,"  more  mildly  won- 
dering, "how  did  you  happen  to  think  of  him  ?" 

Lucy  Parrish  was  equally  casual.  "I  do  not 
know,  I  am  sure.  It  is  about  time  for  him  to  come, 
isn't  it  ?"  pulling  up  grass-blades  and  weaving  them 
between  her  fingers. 

Sally  paused  in  her  digging  and  looked  up  at  the 
waving  green  branches  above  her  head.  "If  I  could 
tell  you  why  that  bird  is  hopping  from  bough  to 
bough,  I'd  feel  competent  to  prophesy  some  of  An- 
thony Streatham's  movements." 

"He  is  certainly  unexpected.  That  is  a  part  of 
his  charm,  I  suppose,"  agreed  Lucy.  "But  to  go 
back  to  Clarence."  Oh,  the  dew- washed  innocence 
of  her  tone,  the  skyey  blankness  of  her  eyes !  "After 
it  was  all  over,  didn't  you  get  lonely  again,  Sally, 
and  feel  the  need  of  companionship  ?" 

Sally  Salt  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  shaking 
the  earth  from  her  blue  gown,  and  now  she  paused 
to  look  down  at  her  companion  with  a  warm,  humor- 
ous scorn.  Did  this  amateur  Diana,  all  pink  ribbons 


15 

and  white  embroideries,  lying  along  the  ground  like 
a  peach  petal,  with  demure,  lowered  lashes,  hope  to 
trap  her,  Sally,  in  nets  as  frail  and  obvious  as  her 
woven  grasses  ? 

"Child,  it's  buzzing,"  she  warned.  "That  lonely 
bee's  buzzing  loud.  What  you  want  to  do  is  to  get 
busy.  Now,  for  my  part,  I  have  no  time  to  sit  on 
stiles  and  wish  some  one  would  come  along  and  love 
me.  I've  got  plenty  to  love,  and  plenty  of  work  to 
do,  and  I  guess  that's  a  plenty  for  me.  I've  got 
everything  living  on  this  place  to  look  after.  I've 
got  to  get  the  best  yield  out  of  every  foot  of  land  on 
these  farms,  and  what's  more,  I've  got  to  treat  the 
land  so's  it  will  want  to  give  its  best. 

"I  ever  get  lonely!"  Sally  Salt  stood  superbly 
upright  and  tossed  her  head,  shining  like  red  gold  in 
the  sunshine.  "Spend  my  time  studying  to  please  a 
man !"  But  the  fervor  and  conviction  of  the  senti- 
ment was  not  corroborated  by  her  voice.  Her  gaze 
dreamed  for  a  moment  on  the  dim  blue  hills,  and 
she  did  not  meet  Lucy  Parrish's  suddenly  uplifted 
eyes. 

"But  you  like  men.  You  know  you  do."  Now 
that  she  had  ceased  to  probe,  perhaps  had  discovered 


16  SALLY    SALT 

what  she  wished  to  know,  the  careful  indifference  of 
Lucy's  voice  gave  way  to  a  natural  gaiety.  She 
abandoned  her  lolling  pose  and  smoothed  out  her 
peach-petal  muslins. 

"Of  course  I  like  men,"  averred  Sally  stoutly. 
"They  live  sensible  lives  and  get  to  know  something. 
I  enjoy  having  them  about;  but  marriage  is  differ- 
ent. It's  too  intimate,  and  there  are  very  few  people 
who  can  emerge  from  an  intimacy  with  even  a  de- 
cent respect  for  each  other.  And  then  it's  the 
dickens  of  a  bore  to  be  always  trying  to  please  some 
one.  Now,  Lucy  Parrish,  do  you  think  I  would 
ever  try  to  melt  myself  down  and  run  myself  over 
into  another  mold  for  the  benefit  of  any  man  on 
earth?  No,"  with  an  individual  upward  toss  of  the 
chin,  "I'm  going  to  live.  I'm  going  to  follow  any 
crazy  idea  that  comes  into  my  head.  I'm  going  to 
be  free." 

"So  am  I !"  affirmed  Lucy  with  ardor. 

"You!"  Sally's  incredulity  was  explosive. 
"What  about  John  Witherspoon  ?" 

"John  Witherspoon!"  It  was  Lucy  who  was 
now  aflame  with  indignation.  "He^  has  nothing  to 
say  in  the  matter.  Why  should  he  have  ?  Just  be- 


THE   SYMPHONY   OF   DAY  17 

cause  he  has  always  lived  in  Yoctangee  and  took  it 
into  his  head  to  fall  in  love  with  me  when  he  was  a 
young  man  in  college  and  I  was  a  little  girl  in  a  pink 
bonnet,  asleep  in  church,  do  I  have  to  marry  him? 
It  would  be  much  more  suitable  for  you  to  do  so, 
Sally;  you  are  nearer  his  age,  and  then  your  farms 
adjoin." 

"He  evidently  prefers  twenty-four  to  thirty-two," 
said  Sally  equably,  "and  anyway,  he  wouldn't  have 
me  as  a  present.  Truth  is  that  he's  so  responsible 
and  safe  and  sure  that  he  bores  himself  to  death. 
He  wants  the  excitement  of  chasing  a  worthless 
little  will-o'-the-wisp  like  you  and  climbing  out  of 
the  bogs  that  you  lead  him  into." 

Before  Lucy  could  answer,  a  tall  mulatto  woman 
with  a  red  and  yellow  bandanna  twisted  about  her 
head  appeared  on  the  porch. 

"Miss  Sally,"  she  called,  "you  an'  Miss  Lucy 
bettah  stop  your  all  confabulatin'  an'  be  comin'  in  if 
you  wants  any  breakfast.  It's  been  ready  dish  yer 
ten  minutes." 


CHAPTER   II 

AN    OLD,    NEW    DREAM 

IT  was  noon  that  day  when  a  stranger  paused  at 
Sally's  gate  and  leaned  for  a  moment  upon  it, 
gazing  appreciatively  at  the  embowered  house,  the 
green  lawns  and  flowered  garden  spaces.  He  was  a 
tall,  thin,  loosely-built  fellow  in  a  flannel  shirt  and 
gray  trousers,  a  gray  coat  thrown  over  one  arm. 
He  had  evidently  walked  many  a  mile,  as  the  dust 
on  his  heavy  shoes  indicated,  yet  he  bore  no  trace 
of  fatigue  in  this  moment  of  relaxation ;  rather,  his 
attitude  bespoke  a  contented  languor,  as  if  he  had 
at  last  reached  journey's  end. 

He  drew  a  long  breath  and  leaned  more  heavily 
on  the  gate.  "The  hunter  home  from  the  hill,  the 
sailor  home  from  the  sea,"  he  murmured,  his  eyes 
still  dwelling  affectionately  upon  this  scene,  of  in- 
closed seclusion,  steeped  in  sunshine,  dappled  with 
shade,  lying  in  the  noonday  calm  as  if  in  a  golden 

18 


AN    OLD,    NEW    DREAM  19 

dream.  They  were  eyes  which  shone  oddly  light 
in  his  deeply  tanned  face,  which  was  darker  by 
many  shades  than  his  sunburned  hair.  Gray  eyes 
— the  clear,  cool  gray  of  water  flowing  under  a 
sunless  sky — light,  candid,  amused — in  a  chance 
encounter;  but  in  those  periods  of  silence  which  An- 
thony Streatham  never  hesitated  to  permit  himself 
in  whatever  company  he  might  be,  they  clouded, 
became  remote,  almost  hooded,  as  if  by  the  exercise 
of  will,  he  screened  his  thought  with  the  veil  of  im- 
penetrability. 

This  contradictory  impression  of  the  eyes  was 
borne  out  in  all  the  other  features  of  his  face.  The 
line  of  the  cheek  was  long,  suggestive  of  the  oval, 
but  this  was  corrected  by  the  straight,  square  chin. 
The  nose,  delicate,  arched,  was  usually  pronounced 
acquiline  by  those  who  failed  to  notice  that  it  was 
almost  coarsely  blunted  at  the  tip,  a  bit  of  modeling 
at  variance  with  its  thin,  fine  bridge.  The  mouth 
was  meditative,  even  melancholy  in  repose,  yet  the 
curves  of  laughter  etched  their  creases  deeply  about 
the  corners  of  the  lips  and  almost  obliterated  the 
compressed  line  of  scholarly  asceticism. 

The  soul  of  good   fellowship,   delighting  in  all 


20  SALLY    SALT 

kinds  and  conditions  of  men,  Streatham  had,  in  his 
freest,  blandest  moments  of  hobnob,  a  quick  fash- 
ion of  narrowing  his  eyelids,  a  slight,  impatient 
twist  of  his  shoulders,  as  if  he  resented  the  least 
encroachment  upon  his  preserves  of  personality,  re- 
fused even  the  soft  fetters  of  friendship  and  as- 
serted an  irritable  and  wilful  freedom.  And  yet, 
all  these  contradictions  of  manner  and  expression 
endeared  even  while  they  disturbed  and  troubled. 
They  resolved  themselves  into  a  part  of  his  inherent 
and  individual  charm — the  charm  of  the  giver  who, 
if  asked  to  go  a  mile,  would  willingly  go  twain  and 
enliven  the  way  with  a  jest  and  a  song,  who  would 
give  his  "cloak  also"  and  forget,  even  while  shiv- 
ering in  the  blast,  that  he  had  ever  possessed  one; 
the  charm  of  the  Gipsy  who  knows  the  green  aisles 
and  camp-fires  of  many  a  forest;  of  the  wastrel  of 
the  night  who  sees  his  visions  of  the  day  burst  into 
flowers  of  flame  against  the  city  sky ;  of  the  scholar 
who  loves  learning  and  delights  in  all  quaint  and 
curious  knowledge;  of  the  stroller  through  life's 
bazaar  who  sees  behind  every  curtain  the  eternal 
romance — pink  almond  blossoms  drifting  on  the 


AN    OLD,    NEW    DREAM  21 

falling  fountain,  the  tinkling  guitar,  and  Fatima  of 
the  languorous  eyes.  An  eager  stroller,  with  ever 
quickened  interests,  and  yet  a  weary  one  withal,  for 
ever  on  the  jeweled  enamels  of  the  bazaar  he  saw  the 
vitreous  stains  of  corrosion,  the  moth  that  ate  its 
way  through  the  pomegranate-bloom  embroideries; 
and  no  matter  who  set  forth  the  wares,  he  dis- 
cerned for  ever  the  skull  behind  the  mask,  and  bar- 
tered with  the  grizzly  shade  of  disillusion. 

But  apparently  satisfied  with  his  leisurely  survey 
of  house  and  garden,  he  finally  opened  the  gate  and 
sauntered  down  the  path.  His  far-sighted,  observ- 
ing eyes  had  evidently  caught  a  glimpse  of  Sally's 
gown  through  the  trees,  for  he  turned  undeviatingly 
toward  the  garden  and  followed  its  labyrinthine 
walks  as  if  they  had  long  been  familiar. 

Sally,  who  had  been  at  work  in  her  shade  gar- 
den, as  she  called  the  tree-thatched,  ferny  space 
where  the  light-shunning  flowers  grew,  rose  to  her 
feet  at  the  sound  of  his  footfalls.  She  listened  a 
moment  and  then  moved  forward  a  few,  involun- 
tary steps,  pushing  back  the  hair  from  her  brows. 
She  had  passed  out  into  the  sunlight  and  it  dazzled 
her  eyes;  she  put  up  both  hands  to  shield  them.  It 


22  SALLY    SALT 

was  characteristic  of  both  of  them  that  she  did  not 
put  out  her  hand  in  greeting  and  neither  did  he 
offer  his. 

"The  fields  are  white,"  said  Anthony  in  a  low, 
rapid  voice,  with  a  stammer  in  it,  "I  hope  the  la- 
borers are  few." 

Sally  laughed.  The  joy  that  always  lay  in  her 
laughter  rang  deep  and  full,  as  if  it  rose  from  some 
unfathomable  and  unfailing  spring,  whose  heart 
was  peace,  whose  bubbles  were  mirth. 

"Funny  thing,"  she  said  innocently,  "there  always 
seems  to  be  a  vacant  place  about  the  time  you  come. 
Your  room's  ready."  Then  she  wrinkled  up  her 
nose,  "Aunt  Mandy's  frying  chicken ;  there  are  new 
peas,  new  beans,  new  beets,  new  everything,  and  all 
the  crispy  salad  leaves  that  you  love.  There  are 
berries  and  melons  and  cherry  pie.  I  don't  believe 
you  have  had  anything  to  eat." 

"Oh,  Sally,  s — stop,"  he  stammered.  "Of  course, 
this  is  a  dream,  the  same  delightful  old  dream  that 
I've  dreamed  for  the  last  three  years  and  hope  to 
go  on  dreaming  for  ever.  But  one  moment,  let  me 
look  at  you.  Oh,  Sally,  my  poor  eyes  have  been 
failing  for  a  sight  of  you."  He  threw  himself  on  the 


AN    OLD,    NEW   DREAM  23 

grass  and  drawing  a  case  from  the  pocket  of  his 
coat,  lighted  a  cigarette. 

Sally,  meanwhile,  had  seated  herself  upon  a  cir- 
cular wooden  bench  built  about  a  great  beach  tree; 
her  red  head  was  thrown  back  against  the  smooth 
trunk  and  her  hands  were  folded  loosely  in  her  lap. 
The  noon  sun  filtered  through  the  dense  growth  of 
leaves  above  her  and  fell  in  bubbles  of  light  over  her 
soft,  tanned  throat  and  blue  cotton  gown,  and 
spangled  with  gold  the  violet  shadow  of  the  long, 
drooping  branches  which  almost  swept  the  ground. 

"Yes,  this  is  a  dream,"  mused  Streatham.  "Sally, 
not  long  ago,  in  the  course  of  my  wanderings,  I 
paused  at  the  home  of  another  widow;  still  young, 
well-dowered,  handsome,  and  she  entertained  me 
with  sprightly  conversation.  She  said :  'Here  is 
Smith's  last  new  novel.  Have  you  read  Jones' 
charming  volume  of  essays?'  She  had  spread  a 
table  with  new  books,  she  offered  me  mental  husks 
and  I,  as  usual,  was  physically  hungry." 

"Another  one  of  your  flirtations?"  There  was  a 
faint  chill  in  her  voice. 

"No,  Sally  dear,"  in  gentle  reproof,  "but  to  be 
strictly  honest,  it  might  have  been,  if  I  could  have 


24  SALLY    SALT 

succeeded  in  convincing  her  that  she  alone  could 
reform  me;  or,  to  put  it  more  accurately,  if  she 
could  have  succeeded  in  convincing  herself  that  she 
might  possibly  achieve  that  crowning  glory  of  her 
sex — snatch  a  brand  from  the  burning.  Yes,  I  an 
convinced  that  if  she  could  really  have  believed  that 
she  could  transform  me  from  an  eager  back-fence 
prowler,  with  dark  alleys  to  thread  and  a  world  of 
alluring  ash-cans  to  explore,  she  might  have  been 
induced  to  return  my  affection." 

"That's  an  idea  all  women  get  in  their  heads  some 
time,"  said  Sally,  "preachers  and  women.  They 
like  to  dangle  the  souls  they've  saved  as  an  Indian 
dangles  scalps.  Truth  is,  no  one  ever  saved  any  one 
else's  soul.  It's  a  job  every  man  is  expected  to  at- 
tend to  for  himself.  But  it's  one  we're  all  mighty 
fond  of  shirking.  It's  a  lot  easier  and  more  excit- 
ing to  fish  for  the  mote  in  your  brother's  eye  than 
to  get  a  derrick  and  crowbar  and  a  few  utensils 
like  that  and  go  earnestly  to  work  to  dislodge  the 
beam  in  your  own. 

"There  are  half  a  dozen  farmers  about  here 
whose  farms  are  mortgaged  to  the  hilt,  but  they're 
always  ready  to  lean  over  my  fence  half  the  day, 


AN    OLD,    NEW   DREAM  25 

if  necessary,  and  tell  me  how  I'm  mismanaging  my 
land.  And  there's  plenty  of  women  who  can't  raise 
a  crop  of  chickweed  in  their  gardens,  ready  to  stand 
at  my  gate  and  sigh  and  shake  their  heads  and  tell 
me  what  a  pity  it  is  that  I've  got  slugs  on  my  roses, 
and  how  spindling  my  geraniums  look,  and  what 
a  dreadful  extravagance  and  waste  of  money  my 
garden  is  anyway.  But  there,  I'm  running  on  as 
usual,  about  nothing  at  all.  What  is  more  to  the 
point  is,  what  have  you  been  doing  for  a  year?" 

He  flicked  the  ashes  from  his  cigarette.  "Chas- 
ing life." 

Sally  bit  through  a  blade  of  grass,  looking  at  him 
meditatively,  almost  curiously. 

"Why  do  you  chase  her  round  and  round  in  a 
circle?  She's  always  right  at  hand." 

"Oh,  no,  she  isn't.  She's  a  butterfly  who  flutters 
her  bright  wings  in  the  sunshine  just  ahead  of  me, 
always  out  of  reach,  just  ahead,  just  around  the 
corner,  so  near  that  I  can  touch  her,  but  never  quite 
grasp  her.  Sometimes  I  think  that  I  seize  and  hold 
her  fast,  but  when  I  finally  and  cautiously  open  my 
fingers  clutched  so  tightly  over  my  treasure,  I  find 
a  dull  moth,  or  worse  still,  a  caterpillar." 


26  SALLY    SALT 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  moment, 
while  Streatham  blew  smoke  among  the  ferns  and 
watched  it  curl  up  through  their  fronds. 

"Whom  have  you  with  you  now  ?"  he  said  at  last. 
"You  always  have  some  one,  you  know." 

"Lucy  Parrish,"  began  Sally. 

"Pretty  Lucy,  with  the  inevitable  and  worthy 
Witherspoon  for  a  background !" 

Sally  nodded.  "She's  nearly  in  tears  because 
Anne  threatens  to  come." 

"The  estimable  Anne,"  he  lazily  commented. 
"Well,  Anne  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  she  had  any 
temperament." 

"Oh,  Anne's  a  good  girl  according  to  her  lights," 
defended  Sally.  "She  isn't  very  interesting — " 

"No  one  is  very  interesting,"  he  interrupted,  "un- 
less he  or  she  has  a  brilliant  capacity  for  making 
mistakes.  If  Eve  had  resembled  Anne,  we  should 
all  still  be  in  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Consider,  Sally; 
if  Anne  had  been  Eve  what  would  she  have  done 
when  the  serpent  offered  her  the  apple?" 

There  were  deep  glints  of  fun  in  Sally's  eyes, 
but  she  answered  without  hesitation,  "She  would 
have  said,  'No,  I  thank  you,  I  was  told  not  to  eat 


AN   OLD,    NEW    DREAM  27 

the  fruit  of  that  tree,'  and  she'd  have  gone  on  feed- 
ing the  animals  as  conscientiously  as  you  please, 
with  never  a  thought  of  that  fascinating  serpent 
coiling  himself  around  that  tree,  the  better  to  show 
off  the  spangles  on  him." 

Their  laughter  mingled  and  swelled. 

"But  Lucy  Parrish  and  Anne!"  said  Streatham. 
"That  doesn't  sound  like  the  assortment  of  the  im- 
becile and  the  invalided  which  usually  cluster  about 
you.  What  is  it  the  pious  call  them — God's  poor?" 

"God  doesn't  know  anything  about  them,"  Sally 
stoutly  affirmed.  "He  never  made  them.  They  are 
entirely  the  work  of  man." 

"You  believe  in  putting  the  blame  where  it  be- 
longs, do  you  not,  Sally?  And  how  is  my  little 
friend,  Harris  Hurd?" 

A  shade  passed  over  Sally's  face.  "Oh,  I'm  both- 
ering a  lot  about  Harris!  The  little  fellow  was 
bitten  by  a  dog  the  other  day,  a  poor,  little,  lost, 
frightened  dog.  They  shot  it  without  waiting  to  see 
whether  anything  was  the  matter  with  it  or  not ;  and 
all  these  idiotic  people  for  miles  around  are  predict- 
ing all  sorts  of  horrible  things  that  will  happen  to 
Harris.  I've  prayed  every  day  that  a  saving  circus 


28  SALLY    SALT 

would  come  along  and  take  their  minds  off  the 
child." 

"I'm  sorry  to  hear  this."  There  was  real  con- 
cern in  Anthony's  voice.  "We  must  do  something 
about  it.  Good  Lord!"  he  said  below  his  breath, 
suddenly  raising  himself  upon  his  elbow,  "who  is 
that — that  man,  out  there  in  the  road?  Quick, 
Sally." 

Sally  looked  up  hastily.  "Oh,  that  is  a  man  by 
the  name  of  Grissom,  who  has  been  about  here 
lately." 

Strolling  along  the  roadside,  unconscious  of  their 
observation,  was  the  man  who  had  excited  Streat- 
ham's  immediate  interest.  Not  the  usual  passer-by 
of  the  country  road,  in  all  certainty.  As  seen  in  the 
glare  of  this  high,  noonday  sun,  he  was  a  thick-set, 
muscular  fellow,  with  a  coarse,  handsome  face, 
vivid  in  coloring,  but  impassive  in  expression ;  bold, 
dark,  keen  eyes,  lips  set  in  a  straight,  thin  line  and 
clothes  of  a  late  and  pronounced  style.  An  unmis- 
takable type;  at  once  the  hunter  and  the  hunted, 
whose  lair  is  in  the  populous  and  indifferent  heart 
of  great  cities,  and  whose  jungle  paths  are  streets 


AN    OLD,    NEW   DREAM  29 

roaring  with  traffic,  and  echoing  with  the  eternal, 
unceasing  footfalls  of  many  passers-by. 

In  that  great  jungle  heart,  where  daily  a  thousand 
eyes  fall  upon  him,  and  a  thousand  hands  would 
clutch  if  they  but  knew,  one  might  fancy  that  he 
could  know  no  security;  but  the  city  is  his  refuge. 
He  seeks  it  with  the  instinct  for  protection  of  those 
birds  and  insects  which  are  so  perfectly  adapted  to 
their  environment,  that  their  hues  simulate  the  tree 
trunks,  the  grasses  they  crouch  among,  the  check- 
ered light  and  shade  falling  on  the  hillside.  And 
this  man  was  so  essentially  urban,  so  of  the  town 
in  certain  localities,  that  he  would  there  pass  un- 
noticed. But  in  the  country  he  detached  himself 
from  the  landscape  and  loomed  colossal  and  sharply 
defined  on  every  horizon. 

"Yes,  that  is  Grissom,"  said  Sally,  leaning  for- 
ward to  make  sure.  "What  he  wants  here,  I  don't 
know.  From  present  indications,  it  looks  as  if  it 
might  be  Hilda  Kurd." 

"Hilda  Hurd !"  Streatham  exclaimed,  abandoning 
his  lazy  attitude.  "Oh,  that  will  never  do !" 

"It  certainly  will  not,"  she  averred.     "But  why 


30  SALLY    SALT 

did  you  ask  about  him  as  you  did?    Do  you  know 
him?" 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  a  little  strangely, 
an  odd  smile  flickering  about  the  corners  of  his 
mouth.  "I  fancy,"  he  said  deliberately,  "that  we 
have  met.  I  think  that  on  more  than  one  occasion 
we  have  both  been  among  those  present.  What  a 
problem  it  all  is,  anyway!" 

"The  problem  that  confronts  you  now/'  said 
Sally  coolly,  "is  that  we  are  going  to  begin  to  cut 
wheat  this  afternoon.  You  might  as  well  be  getting 
ready  to  work." 

"My  first  day,"  he  reproached  her,  "and  such  a 
hot  one,  too.  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?" 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  there,  too,"  said  Sally.  "I'm  go- 
ing to  drive  a  reaper.  But  come,  you  must  have 
food." 

All  the  long  afternoon  Streatham  worked  in  the 
yellow  wheat-fields  under  the  burning  sun;  until  at 
evening  Sally  gave  her  final  orders  to  her  men 
about  the  morrow,  beckoned  him,  and  they  started 
together  across  a  clover-field.  They  crushed  the 
lush  leaves  under  their  feet  as  they  walked,  the  air 
was  full  of  the  fresh,  sweet  fragrance  of  the  pink 


AN    OLD,    NEW    DREAM  31 

clover  heads,  the  sun  was  slowly  sinking  behind  the 
low-lying  hills,  and  stretched  over  the  fields  in  long, 
level  bars.  Some  of  Sally's  Alderney  cows,  sleek, 
dun-colored  creatures,  walked  past  them  down  a 
narrow  lane  between  two  fields. 

"Aren't  they  pretty?"  said  Sally  lovingly,  lean- 
ing against  a  fence  post  covered  with  delicate  flut- 
ings  of  pale  green  and  orange  lichens. 

"Sally,  I  wish  I  could  paint.  I  always  wish  I 
could  paint  when  I  look  at  you,"  stammered  An- 
thony. "Hebe!" 

"Do  you?"  asked  Sally  idly.  Her  eyes  were  first 
on  the  other  side  of  the  lane,  where  the  wind  gently 
stirred  the  broad,  shining  blades  of  corn.  The 
sun  was  sinking  very  low  behind  the  hills,  and 
soft,  purple  hazes  were  beginning  to  float  over  the 
fields. 

"Sally,"  whispered  Streatham  breathlessly. 

She  turned  and  for  one  long  moment  they  looked 
deep  into  each  other's  eyes,  that  full  gaze  of  self- 
revelation,  glorying  in  its  emotion,  leaping  to  the 
full  expression  of  it.  For  that  one  moment  they 
stood  thus,  their  eyes  revealing,  questioning,  then 
Streatham's  arms  were  about  her,  his  lips  on  hers. 


32  SALLY    SALT 

"It's  an  old,  new  dream  come  true.  I — I  love  you, 
Sally." 

And  Sally,  the  world  forgetting,  the  music  of  the 
spheres  in  her  soul,  the  fields  grown  dim  before  her 
eyes,  had  thrown  her  arms  about  his  neck  and 
pressed  her  cheek  closely  against  his. 

Across  the  meadows  there  rose  and  fell  the  sound 
of  singing;  a  far  call  of  melody,  as  if  blown  from 
the  heart  of  sunset,  crystal-clear,  unearthly,  sweet 
as  the  horns  of  elf-land.  And  Sally  felt  Streatham 
start  and  listen.  He  lifted  his  head,  his  arms  re- 
laxed their  clasp  of  her. 

"It  is  Hilda  Hurd,  singing,"  she  said. 

"It's  a  skylark.  'Hail  to  thee,  blythe  spirit/  " 
he  muttered.  "What  a  quality — disembodied,  lyri- 
cal!" His  arms  had  fallen.  All  of  his  senses 
seemed  concentrated  into  hearing,  so  intensely  he 
listened.  There  was  a  strange,  rapt  look  on  his 
face,  as  if  at  the  sound  of  Hilda's  singing,  some  se- 
cret, unsuspected  spring  within  him  had  been 
touched  and  he  had  followed,  without  hindrance, 
that  call  of  melody  across  the  shadowy,  impassable 
barriers  of  a  thousand  worlds  to  the  heart  of  the 


AN    OLD,    NEW   DREAM  33 

sunset,  where  light  was  glory,  and  falling  waters 
were  shaken  with  music,  and  stars  were  flowers. 

"She  has  stopped."  Was  there  satisfaction  in 
Sally's  tones?  "Come.  It  grows  late.  Why,  An- 
thony, you  look,"  in  puzzled  laughter,  "you  look 
like  Rip  Van  Winkle  just  wakened  from  sleep.''' 


CHAPTER    III 

A    CLOUD  IN   THE   SKY 

HERE  ain't  a  day  passes  that  Mrs.  Salt 
don't  shame  me  some  way."  Mrs.  Nesbit  in 
her  usual  chair  upon  the  porch  anxiously  smoothed 
her  figured  silk  gown  and  lifted  faded,  aggrieved 
eyes  to  her  intimate  friend  and  gossip,  Mrs.  Hill,  a 
tall,  stout,  unwieldy  woman  in  a  black  and  purple 
print  dress,  swinging  slowly,  ponderously  back  and 
forth  in  a  rocking-chair.  Cold,  inquisitive  eyes 
shone  in  her  large  ruddy  face,  and  she  pursed  a 
sanctimoniously  held  mouth  and  nodded  emphati- 
cally. 

"Sometimes,"  Mrs.  Nesbit  continued  in  her  high, 
shrill  voice,  encouraged  by  this  expression  of  sym- 
pathy, "I  feel  as  if  her  goings  on  was  more  than  I 
could  bear.  I've  always  lived  respectable.  My 
folks  had  money.  Why,  my  mother  never  went 
without  a  silk  dress  to  wear  on  her  back  of  a  Sun- 

34 


A   CLOUD    IN    TBE    SKY  35 

day.  And  it  seems  hard,  yes,  it  does,  that  I  got  to 
spend  my  last  days  with  some  one  like  Sally  Salt. 
Why,  Mis'  Hill,"  fingering  a  hair  brooch  at  her 
throat  as  if  to  see  that  it  was  still  in  place,  "just 
last  Sunday,  when  everybody  was  driving  along  the 
road  to  church,  she  walked  out  as  bold  as  you  please 
with  a  fishing-rod  over  her  shoulder,  going  a-fish- 
ing."  She  glanced  up  at  her  companion  out  of  the 
corner  of  her  eye  with  the  hurried,  furtive  glance 
of  some  small,  timid  animal. 

Mrs.  Hill  sighed  heavily  and  again  pursed  her 
mouth.  "I  put  it  all  down  to  her  not  bein'  a  per- 
fesser,"  was  her  dictum.  "Now  down  to  the  mis- 
sionary meeting  the  other  day  she  sent  in  a  whole 
box  full  of  clothes.  They  was  nice,  I'm  bound  to 
say  it,"  impartially,  "and  the  ladies  was  pleased. 
Then  one  of  those  women,  Mrs.  Jim  Hopkins,  of 
course,  she  kept  going  on  about  how  good  Sally 
Salt  was  and  how  kind  and  how  there  wasn't  no- 
body in  distress  that  she  didn't  try  to  help,  until  I 
was  given  courage  to  speak  right  up.  I  says,  'Yes, 
she  does  do  kind-appearing  things,  but  what  good 
are  they  going  to  do  her  on  the  awful  day  of  judg- 
ment? You  ladies  seem  to  forget  that  she  ain't 


36  SALLY    SALT 

never  accepted  religion.  It  ain't  so  bad  for  a  man, 
but  when  a  woman  can't  be  reached  by  grace — ' ': 

She  slowly  shook  her  head  as  she  contemplated 
this  ultimate  possibility  beyond  words.  Then,  still 
gazing  into  the  pit,  so  to  speak,  her  expression  was 
gradually  mollified.  The  vision  spectacular  of  the 
final  triumph  of  justice,  including  wailing,  gnash- 
ing of  teeth  and  the  burning  of  tares,  promised  a 
comforting  balance  of  the  scales.  Fired  by  zeal, 
she  turned  her  beetling  gaze  upon  her  friend.  "Mis' 
Nesbit,  I  don't  see  how  you  settle  it  with  your  con- 
science to  stay  here." 

"I — I  often  feel  that  way  myself,"  faltered  her 
companion,  twisting  a  carnelian  ring  upon  her  fin- 
ger. "I  once  went  so  far  as  to  speak  to  Preacher 
Ward  about  it,  and  he  argued  with  me  to  stay,  'spe- 
cially since  I  didn't  have  no  place  else  to  go,  bein' 
as  all  my  folks  is  dead.  He  says,  'You  got  a  good, 
comfortable  home  here;  You  can  do  as  you  please, 
and  Mis'  Salt's  as  good  to  you  as  if  you  was  her 
own  mother.  I  don't  think  you  got  any  call  to  com- 
plain, 'specially,  as  you  ain't  got  any  real  claim  on 
Mis'  Salt.' 

"Oh,  he  spoke  real  harsh  to  me,  Mis'  Hill.    Why, 


A   CLOUD    IN    THE    SKY  37 

my  feelings  was  so  hurt  that  I  took  to  my  bed  and 
cried  steady  for  two  whole  days." 

"I  always  said  he  wasn't  fitten  for  the  place." 
Mrs.  Hill's  simplest  utterances  had  the  quality  of  a 
pronunciamento.  "He  ain't  the  true  sperrit  of  love. 
I  hope  you  spoke  right  up  to  him,  Mis'  Nesbit." 

'  'Deed  I  did."  Two  bright  spots  of  color  glowed 
on  the  faded  cheeks.  "I  told  him  I  felt  I  had  a  per- 
fect right  here,  that  Sally  was  'most  engaged  to  my 
son  Clarence,  who  died  in  this  house,  and  that  made 
the  place  sacred  to  me;  but,"  her  complaining  little 
bleat  ending  in  a  gasp,  "it's  awful  hard  sometimes. 
Just  look  at  them  lazy  cats,  five  and  six  of  them 
sunning  themselves  on  the  front  porch  like  it  be- 
longed to  them  and  dogs  chasing  all  over  the  place !" 

"And  don't  forget" — Mrs.  Hill  was  not  one  to 
forbear  piling  Ossa  on  Pelion — "and  don't  forget 
all  the  trash  she's  liable  to  pick  right  up  off  the  road 
and  bring  in,  so's  you  never  know  whether  you're 

sleeping  under  the   roof  with  a  murderer  or  an 

i 

escaped  lunatic." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  shuddered,  but  her  mind  was  still  too 
much  occupied  with  Sally's  detestable  pets  fully  to 
contemplate  this  suggested  possibility. 


38  SALLY    SALT 

"One  day,"  she  shrilled  on  complainingly,  monot- 
onously as  a  cicada  at  noontide,  "after  I  found  one 
cat  asleep  on  my  bed,  and  was  kept  awake  the  whole 
night  by  another  jumping  in  and  out  of  the  window, 
I  got  my  spunk  up,  and  I  says,  'Sally,  if  you  had 
any  respect  for  me,  Clarence's  mother,  you  wouldn't 
ask  me  to  live  in  a  house  that's  'most  like  a  institu- 
tion. Why,  if  my  mother  thought  I  was  livin'  in 
such  a  place,  she'd  turn  in  her  grave.'  She  was  a 
terrible  proud  woman,  Mis'  Hill,  and  no  one  had  a 
better  right.  She  was  born  a  Hoskins.  But  Sally, 
she  didn't  pay  no  more  attention  to  me  than  she  does 
to  anybody,  just  laughed  and  teased  me." 

Mrs.  Hill  shook  her  head.  "As  I  come  past  the 
orchard,  I  saw  Sally  and  Lucy  Parrish  and  a  man. 
He  was  lying  on  the  ground  under  the  trees,  and  I 
couldn't  see  him  very  good,  but  it  didn't  look  like 
John  Witherspoon.  I  suspicioned  that  it  was  that 
Streatham  that  comes  here  every  summer.  It's 
about  time  for  him,  ain't  it?" 

"He  came  yesterday,"  replied  Mrs.  Nesbit.  "I 
will  say  for  him  that  he  is  quite  the  gentleman." 

"I'm  the  last  one  to  hear  gossip,  let  alone  repeat- 
ing it,"  Mrs.  Hill  arched  her  chest  virtuously,  "but 


A   CLOUD    IN    THE    SKY  39 

all  the  ladies  at  the  missionary  society  seemed  to  be 
talking  about  them." 

"She's  got  a  plenty  beaux,"  admitted  Mrs.  Nes- 
bit  vaguely. 

"Huh!  Course  she's  got  'em,  thick  as  flies 
around  molasses;  but  I  ask  you  this,"  folding  her 
arms  across  her  bosom,  "how  many  do  you  think 
she'd  have  if  she  was  as  poor  as  you  and  me?  If 
Sally  Salt  hadn't  her  good  big  farms,  how  many 
men  do  you  think  would  be  clustering  about  ?" 

"I  don't  think  many,"  doubted  Mrs.  Nesbit.  "I 
don't  think  gentlemen,  as  a  rule,  fall  in  love  with 
ladies  so  much  like  themselves."  She  smoothed 
back  her  hair  consciously.  "Who's  that  coming  in 
the  gate?" 

Both  women  craned  their  necks  to  see,  but  the 
girl  who  had  slipped  through  the  gate,  after  one 
hesitating  glance  toward  the  house,  a  glance  which 
discerned  the  two  occupants  of  the  porch,  hastily 
sought  shelter  behind  a  group  of  shrubbery  and 
trees,  and,  with  the  idea  of  concealment  evidently  in 
mind,  made  her  way  toward  the  orchard  as  rapidly 
as  her  circuitous  path  permitted. 

In  the  center  of  a  little  clearing  in  the  orchard, 


40  SALLY    SALT 

Sally  stood  in  a  pool  of  morning  sunlight,  hatless, 
her  blue  cotton  gown  open  at  the  throat  as  if  her 
vitality  craved  and  exulted  in  its  warmth  and  splen- 
dor. On  the  brink  of  shadow,  Lucy  Parrish,  deli- 
cately tinted,  daintily  modeled — the  embodiment  of 
Spring  at  its  exquisite,  fugitive  perihelion — faced 
her,  only  to  be  dominated  and  eclipsed  by  the  sum- 
mer of  Sally. 

At  least,  that  would  have  been  the  general  opin- 
ion ;  but  one  man  would  have  stoutly  held  out 
against  it  for  ever.  That  was  John  Witherspoon, 
who  lay  along  the  grass  at  Lucy's  feet,  and  like  her- 
self well  within  the  zone  of  grateful  shade.  He  was 
a  tall,  well  set-up  man  nearer  forty  than  thirty,  with 
brown,  smooth  hair  beginning  to  show  gray,  and 
calm,  sincere  brown  eyes  which  looked  out  pleas- 
antly upon  the  world.  One  glance  was  usually  suf- 
ficient to  convince  most  persons  that  he  was  one  of 
the  most  likable  and  dependable  of  human  beings. 

Sally  was  casting  screenings  in  broad,  sweeping 
handfuls  from  a  pan  held  in  the  crotch  of  her  arm 
to  a  great  flock  of  industriously  pecking  chickens, 
snow-white  Leghorns,  gray  speckled  Plymouth 
Rocks,  buff  cochin-chinas,  while  tiny  yellow  and 


A   CLOUD    IN    THE    SKY  41 

white  chicks  struggled  through  the  long,  seeding 
grass  in  obedience  to  a  motherly  cluck,  and  fluttered 
their  bidding  wings  about  a  platter  of  warm  corn- 
meal  mush  at  her  feet. 

Anthony  had  perched  himself  in  a  crotch  of  a 
tree,  and  choosing  to  play  the  part  of  sister  Anne 
in  her  watchtower,  was  announcing  the  cloud  of 
dust  and  the  flock  of  sheep  in  their  chronological  or- 
der with  dramatic  fervor. 

"Here's  a  beautiful  cloud  of  dust,"  he  announced. 
"Alas!  it  resolves  itself  into  a  lady  whom  I  remem- 
ber perfectly,  but  whose  name  I  can  not  now  re- 
call." 

Lucy  languidly  turned  her  head.  "It  is  Mrs. 
Meecham,"  she  said. 

"Mary  Meecham,"  commented  Sally.  "Mary  is 
literally  swamped  in  marriage.  She  used  to  be  very 
fond  of  games,  and  as  girls,  she  and  I  were  always 
playing  checkers  or  backgammon  or  chess.  Well, 
the  other  day  I  went  to  see  her,  and  noticed  the 
chessmen  on  the  what-not  looking  kind  of  lonesome 
and  dusty.  So  I  said  on  the  spur  of  the  moment, 
'Come  on,  Mary,  let's  have  a  game  for  the  sake  of 
old  times.'  'No,'  she  shook  her  head,  'Albert  doesn't 


42  SALLY    SALT 

care  for  games.  He  thinks  they  are  a  foolish  waste 
of  time,  so  I've  given  them  up/ 

"That's  the  way  most  women  do  and  they  don't 
get  a  mite  of  credit  for  it.  In  most  cases  Albert 
isn't  even  aware  of  the  burnt  offering." 

"Oh,  Sally,  Sally,"  sighed  Streatham,  "here  comes 
David  Pearson  riding  along  on  his  old  brown  nag. 
His  mouth  has  a  grimmer  set  than  it  ever  had  be- 
fore; he  would  willingly  convince  you  of  the  error 
of  your  views  and  the  proper  place  of  woman  in  the 
home. 

"By  Jove !"  he  exclaimed,  "play  make-believe  long 
enough  and  it's  sure  to  come  true.  Here's  some  one 
coming  in  the  gate.  Why,  I  believe  it  is  Hilda 
Hurd.  Yes,  it  is.  Sister  Anne  must  now  descend 
from  the  tower,  passing  as  she  does  so  from  one 
incarnation  to  another,  progressing  from  the  infe- 
rior feminine  thought  to  the  superior  masculine,  and 
as  Anthony  Streatham,  greet  the — what  shall  we 
call  her — elusive  Hilda." 

Sally's  face  had  clouded  a  little.  "I  can  call  pub- 
licans and  sinners  'brother'  without  a  qualm,"  she 
remarked  abruptly,  "but  fools  bother  me." 

"She  evidently  means  you,  Lucy,"  said  Anthony, 


A   CLOUD    IN    THE    SKY  43 

"for  manifestly  I  can  not  run  the  'pub'  where  sin- 
ners congregate,  and  wear  motley  at  the  same  time." 

Witherspoon  laughed.  "You're  too  modest, 
Tony,"  he  said  lazily.  "We  who  know  you  believe 
that  you  are  quite  capable  of  playing  all  three  parts, 
publican,  sinner  and  fool." 

"Has  Hilda  done  anything  with  her  lovely  voice, 
Sally?"  asked  Lucy,  before  Streatham  could  an- 
swer. 

"No,  the  mother  won't  hear  of  her  leaving  home 
to  study." 

"But  we  ought  all  to  do  something  about  it,  really, 
we  ought — "Lucy  spoke  with  conviction — "such  a 
voice  as  that  shouldn't  be  lost  here  in  the  country." 

"Well,  I  can't  do  anything  about  Hilda's  voice 
now,  not  this  morning.  Harris  is  occupying  my 
thoughts  at  present,  and  something  must  be  wrong 
with  him.  Look  how  Hilda  is  hurrying." 

Indeed  Hilda  was  almost  running.  She  had  come 
across  the  green,  old  orchard,  between  the  rows  of 
gnarled,  bent  trees  with  their  low  boughs  thickly 
rosetted  with  gray,  green  leaves  and  hung  with 
green  globes  of  fruit  beginning  to  show  faint,  red 
stripings.  But  now,  as  she  reached  the  little  group, 


44  SALLY    SALT 

she  paused  warily  on  the  very  edge  of  a  pool  of  sun- 
light and  drew  back  a  little  into  the  dim,  pleasant 
seclusion  of  shadow. 

A  little,  pleased  smile  dimpled  her  cheek  for  the 
moment  at  Anthony's  greeting,  and  then  she  turned 
anxious,  frightened  eyes  to  Sally.  She  was  a  slen- 
der, tall  creature  with  an  appealing  face  full  of 
pathetic  charm.  Her  hair  was  of  an  ashen  fairness, 
her  eyes  were  wide  and  blue,  the  features  delicate 
and  indecisive,  and  the  skin  was  of  the  exquisite, 
pale,  pinkish  yellow  of  the  tea-rose.  There  was 
nothing  distinct  nor  definite  about  her  beauty.  It 
stole  upon  the  beholder  now  and  again  in  a  wistful 
glance;  it  revealed  itself  unexpectedly  in  her  mo- 
ments of  pensive  reverie,  and  even  expressed  itself 
in  the  soft,  fluttering  vagueness  of  her  manner,  or 
the  tender,  longing  appeal  of  her  smile. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Salt,"  she  cried  as  she  came  near, 
hands  on  her  panting  chest,  her  flute-like  voice 
broken  by  emotion,  "won't  you  please  come  and  see 
if  you  can  do  any  good?  Harris  has  been  crying 
all  morning  for  you,  and  mother  wouldn't  send. 
They  are  trying  all  kinds  of  remedies  on  him,  and 


A   CLOUD    IN    THE    SKY  45 

people  are  driving  in  from  miles  around  and  sitting 
on  the  porch." 

Sally's  glance  flamed ;  then,  as  suddenly,  her  face 
set,  revealing  its  square,  indomitable  outline.  "An- 
thony, you  had  better  come  with  me,"  she  said 
decisively.  "You're  more  popular  there  than  I. 
Lucy,  you  tell  Wilmerdine  to  get  the  little  room  next 
to  mine  ready  for  Harris."  Her  orders  were  sharp 
and  crisp.  "Come,  Hilda,  I'll  go  with  you  now." 

"No,  no,  no!"  the  girl  shrank  and  wavered. 
"Please  do  not.  I  wouldn't  have  any  one  know  I'd 
come  for  all  the  world.  I'll  run  across  lots  and  join 
father  down  in  the  meadow.  You  won't  tell  I 
came,  will  you,  Mrs.  Salt?" 

"My  patience,  no,"  said  Sally,  but  with  impa- 
tience. "Go  the  back  way,  front  way,  any  way  you 
want."  She  strode  herself,  with  the  free  move- 
ments of  a  winged  goddess  of  Victory,  hatless,  out 
on  the  dusty  highway  in  the  glare  of  the  hot,  high 
sun. 


BEYOND    THE    HILLS 

A)  Sally  and  Streatham  took  to  the  highway, 
Hilda  Hurd  ran  like  a  fawn  across  the  or- 
chard and  out  through  the  meadows.  She  skimmed 
a  field  or  two  without  pausing  for  breath,  skirted 
the  back  of  a  house,  and  finally  joined  an  old  man 
who  stood  with  his  arms  folded  on  a  stake-and-rider 
fence.  A  strong  resemblance  proved  to  the  most 
casual  observer  the  relation  existing  between  them, 
that  of  father  and  daughter.  His  features  were 
more  delicately  and  decisively  cut  than  hers,  but  this 
may  have  been  due  to  the  fact  that  hers  were  blurred 
in  the  soft  and  indefinite  outlines  of  youth,  still 
innocent  of  the  sharp  chiselings  of  time  and  experi- 
ence. 

His  hair,  thick  and  white,  was  tossed  back  from 
his  brow,  a  long  white  beard  swept  his  chest, 
prophet-wise,  and  his  eyes,  wide  and  vague  as 

46 


BEYOND   THE    HILLS  47 

Hilda's  own,  with  the  same  oddly  luminous  quality, 
were  fixed  on  the  low  line  of  hills,  unsubstantial, 
almost  floating  in  their  pearly  hazes  of  distance. 
Both  face  and  figure  showed  a  finish,  almost  a  fas- 
tidiousness of  modeling  which  his  coarse  clothes 
could  not  conceal,  nor  the  evidences  of  toil  oblit- 
erate. 

Years  before,  his  young  imagination  inflamed  by 
Horace  Greeley's  advice,  he  had  adventured  from 
New  England,  to  seek  that  vast  and  virgin  land  of 
opportunity — the  West.  But  while  crossing  the 
hills  of  the  middle  country  he  had  made  one  of  the 
occasional  and  leisurely  halts  with  which  it  had 
pleased  him  to  break  his  journey  from  its  start. 
This  time  it  was  at  the  cabin  of  a  "mountaineer," 
and,  lingering  there  a  few  days,  he  had  fallen  in 
love  with  the  handsome  dark-eyed  daughter  of 
shiftless,  illiterate  parents. 

The  capital  which  Hurd  possessed  to  invest  in 
life  consisted  of  his  striking  good  looks,  some  edu- 
cation, and  a  little  money,  the  latter  an  unguarded 
and  undefended  treasure,  a  honeycomb  gnawed  by 
the  foes  of  his  own  household.  And  these  foes 
were  a  childlike  credulity,  an  open  hand  for  all  who 


48  SALLY    SALT 

asked,  and  an  implicit  and  obstinate  following  of 
his  most  fantastic  impulses.  As  for  the  girl,  she 
was  just  a  degree  above  one  of  the  most  definitely 
defined  castes  in  America — poor  white  trash — but 
she  was  handsome,  she  was  vigorous,  she  was  ambi- 
tious, a  quality  alien  to  her  class  and  people,  and 
probably  bequeathed  to  her  by  some  remote  pro- 
genitor; and~sRe  sawln  this  weak,  beautiful,  dreamy 
youth  an  opportunity  more  golden  and  concrete 
than  any  he  had  visioned  in  his  splendid,  romantic 
West. 

Her  conquest  was  an  easy  one.  For  the  first 
time  he  encountered  in  visible  form  the  dream  of 
man — woman,  the  world's  desire.  In  that  first 
ecstasy  of  meeting,  he  crowned  her  with  stars  and 
wreathed  her  with  the  scarlet  blossoms  of  his  young 
heart;  but  not  for  long.  For  him  the  Venusberg 
was  the  most  illusory  pageatnt  of  this  world  which 
he  had  known  always,  though  still  vaguely  and  in- 
articulately, as  the  valley  of  illusion. 

His  marriage  was  inevitable,  and  barely  accom- 
plished when  his  wife  persuaded  him  to  renounce 
his  further  adventuring  and  to  journey  no  further 
in  search  of  a  land  of  snow-capped  mountains  of 


BEYOND   THE   HILLS  49 

gold,  of  fertile,  illimitable  plains,  of  eternal  sum- 
mer, and  wonderful  painted  fruits,  with  the  smiling 
Pacific  Ocean  purring  at  its  shores.  She  knew  of 
rich  bottom  lands,  of  farms  of  an  excellent  yield 
nearer  home.  So  they  journeyed  to  a  neighboring 
state,  the  money  was  invested  in  the  ground  she 
coveted,  and  Maria  Hurd  prepared  to  enjoy  the  long, 
fat  years  stretching  before  her,  to  give  free  rein 
to  her  ambition,  to  acquire,  to  hoard,  and  to  extend 
her  holdings ;  but  as  those  eagerly  anticipated  years 
went  on  she  was  forced  to  reckon,  ever  more  bit- 
terly, her  gain  as  loss.  She  learned  to  know  that 
the  strength  of  the  weak,  the  defense  of  the  defense- 
less, often  lies  in  a  peculiar  elusiveness.  So,  she 
found  it.  Hurd,  her  man  of  straw,  had  a  pith  to 
him  which  rendered  him  more  unresponsive  to  her 
influence  than  a  strong  and  positive  nature  could 
possibly  have  been.  That  conflict  of  strength  with 
strength  would  have  meant,  from  the  outset,  the 
clash  of  wills  and  the  gradual  capitulation  of  the  re- 
sisting one  to  the  more  imperious  and  powerful 
force;  but  in  this  case  the  will  was  not  resisted,  it 
was  evaded,  and  Mrs.  Hurd  found  that  she  might 
as  well  try  to  mold  water,  to  break  the  bending 


50  SALLY    SALT 

withe,  to  order  the  wind,  as  to  manage  her  husband. 
The  real  strength  of  his  nature,  more  or  less  qui- 
escent and  hidden  in  youth,  but  which  was  destined 
inevitably  to  leaven  the  whole  lump  of  him,  was 
mysticism.  He  was  past  his  wife's  crude  compre- 
hension, as  well  as  her  patience.  Gradually,  and 
with  increasing  resentment,  she  grew  to  regard  him 
as  not  only  shiftless,  but,  as  she  expressed  it,  half- 
cracked,  and  to  put  him  to  what  poor  uses  she  could. 

But  even  so,  they  failed  to  prosper.  Kurd,  who 
had  in  some  way  succeeded  in  retaining  his  property 
in  his  own  hands,  occasionally  took  a  keen  and  dis- 
astrous interest  in  various  land  deals,  trades  and 
bargains. 

This  morning,  however,  he  did  not  turn  from  his 
rapt  contemplation  of  the  far  horizon  as  Hilda 
halted  beside  him,  one  hand  upon  her  panting  chest. 

"Mrs.  Salt  will  soon  be  here,  father,"  she  cried. 
"She  and  Mr.  Streatham  came  the  roadway." 

Her  father  did  not  answer  nor  give  any  indication 
of  having  heard  her.  His  gaze  remained  fixed  on 
the  hills. 

"Did  you  ever  get  to  studying  about  what  lies 
beyond  the  things  you  see,  Hilda?"  he  asked. 


BEYOND   THE   HILLS  51 

"Those  hills,  do  you  mean  ?"  She  looked  at  him 
in  surprise.  "Why,  you  know  what  is  behind  them, 
father,  as  well  as  you  know  what  is  on  this  side." 

"I  don't  mean  that,"  he  said  patiently.  "What  is 
the  matter  with  you,  Hilda  ?  You  are  usually  quick 
enough  to  understand.  I  mean  what  is  beyond 
that,  and  then  what  is  beyond  that.  What  is  al- 
ways behind  that  which  you  can  see  and  know. 
That  is  the  thing  that  keeps  me  guessing  all  the 
time." 

But  Hilda  could  not  soar  with  him  above  the  dust 
of  earth,  not  now,  at  all  events,  when  her  heart  was 
torn  with  anxiety.  The  strongest  need  of  her  na- 
ture was  to  minister  to  those  she  loved.  Having, 
as  her  mother  frequently  and  scornfully  phrased  h, 
"taken  after  her  father,"  she  was  inefficient  in 
Martha-like  service  and  was  yet  ignorant  that  Mary 
had  anything  to  give,  so  that  her  soul,  troubled  by 
her  ineptness,  a  subject  for  frequent  discussion 
and  habitual  reminder,  quaked  and  feared  and 
leaned  heavily  upon  the  strength  of  others. 

"But,  father,"  her  voice  was  not  impatient,  only 
plaintive,  as  with  detaining,  drawing  hands  upon  his 
sleeve  she  strove  to  recall  him  from  his  far  world 


52  SALLY    SALT 

of  dreams,  "father,  what  are  we  going  to  do  about 
Harris  if  Mrs.  Salt  isn't  successful?  Mr.  Gris- 
som,"  a  delicate  flush  rising  on  her  cheek,  "has  tried 
and  tried,  but  it's  no  use." 

"Oh,  Harris !"  He  pulled  his  arm  away  as  if  her 
touch  stung  him,  and  drew  his  toil-worn  hand  across 
his  brow,  a  shiver  of  pain  contracting  his  sensitive 
face.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do,  Hilda,  that  we 
can't  do  a  thing."  He  twitched  his  shoulders  in 
irritable  shame.  "Why,"  with  a  touch  of  violence, 
"don't  you  let  me  get  away  and  forget  it  ?" 

"I  wish  you  would  take  me  with  you,"  she  said 
forlornly. 

He  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  even  a  faint  con- 
tempt. "Anybody  can  go  that's  a  mind  to,"  he  said. 
"It's  a  free  country.  I've  got  no  keys  to  it.  That's 
it,  Hilda;  it's  free."  His  eyes  shone  with  a  peculiar 
inward  light ;  his  face  was  irradiated.  "And  there's 
everything  in  it.  Why,  Hilda,  I  can  spend  all  day 
picturing  just  what  might  be  behind  that  one  lone 
hill  yonder." 

His  daughter  gazed  at  him  with  a  wistful,  half- 
proud  expression,  but  almost  for  the  first  time  with- 
out a  spontaneous  and  understanding  sympathy. 


BEYOND   THE    HILLS  53 

Usually  she  was  his  joyous  and  eager  companion  in 
what  was  to  both  of  them  the  realm  of  the  real. 
To-day  she  could  not  journey  with  him.  She  shook 
her  head  dejectedly,  one  or  two  tears  ran  down  her 
cheeks,  but  she  wiped  them  away,  and  after  a  mo- 
ment or  two  of  her  usual  indecision  walked  toward 
the  house. 

The  Hurd  home  was  an  humble  and  unpretentious 
one,  set  in  the  midst ,of  a  beautiful  and  fertile  coun- 
try. Back  of  it  rolled  the  low  hills  and  before  it 
stretched  broad,  well-tilled  fields,  now  ripening  for 
the  harvest.  The  house  itself  was  a  one-story  cot- 
tage, with  a  sagging  porch  running  the  length  of  it. 
A  group  of  men  and  women  sat  on  the  one  low  step 
of  the  porch,  for  the  most  part  silent,  although  there 
was  an  occasional  effort  at  more  or  less  laconic 
conversation. 

"Has  he  begun  to  bark  yet  ?"  a  woman  in  a  calico 
wrapper  and  a  slat  sunbonnet  asked  presently. 

"No,"  said  one  of  the  men,  looking  up  and  shift- 
ing his  quid  of  tobacco  to  the  other  side  of  his 
mouth ;  "but  he's  refused  water  twice  this  morning." 

"Is  that  so?"  Eagerness  colored  the  woman's 
drawling  tones.  "Well,  I  guess  he'll  be  beginning 


54  SALLY    SALT 

soon,  so  we  might  as  well  wait.  My !  The  neigh- 
bors have  turned  out,  haven't  they?  Look  at  that 
string  of  buggies  hitched  to  the  fence !  Well,"  with 
a  long  sigh,  "I  s'pose  it  ain't  no  more'n  right  that  we 
should  stand  by  each  other  at  such  a  time,  and  show 
sympathy." 

"That's  right,"  agreed  one  of  the  men  heavily. 
"But  it's  harvesting  you  know.  I  hope  he  won't 
keep  us  all  day." 

"Say!"  The  woman  shielded  her  eyes  with  her 
hand.  "That  surely  ain't  Hurd  down  there  by  the 
lot?" 

"Yes,  it  is."  The  man  spoke  contemptuously. 
"What'd  you  expect?  He  ain't  got  no  more  sense 
of  hospitality  nor  what's  fit  and  proper  than  a  year- 
lin'  colt." 

"Who's  this  comin'  down  the  road?"  the  woman 
asked.  "The  sun's  in  my  eyes,  and  I  can't  see  for 
the  dazzle." 

He  ran  his  thumb  over  the  stick  he  had  been  whit- 
tling, as  if  to  test  its  smoothness,  and  then  looked 
up.  "Blest  if  it  ain't  Sally  Salt;  and,  yes,  I  do 
believe  she's  got  that  Streatham  with  her." 

"What's  she  up  to  now  ?"  wondered  the  woman. 


BEYOND   THE   HILLS  55 

"Lord  knows,"  piously.  "And  I  guess  she  keeps 
Him  puzzling  most  of  the  time,"  he  chuckled  under 
his  breath. 

Grissom,  who  had  been  standing  with  his  back  to 
the  paling  gate,  stood  aside  at  the  sound  of  foot- 
steps, then,  turning,  gave  a  slight  start  as  he  beheld 
Sally  and  Streatham. 

The  two  men  regarded  each  other  fixedly  for  a 
moment,  a  strange  smile  on  each  face. 

"Ah — Grissom,"  said  Anthony,  halting  an  appre- 
ciable second  before  the  name.  "How  did  you  hap- 
pen to  discover  this  out-of-the-way  corner  of  the 
world?" 

The  other  had  recovered  himself  by  this  time,  and 
spoke  with  a  touch  of  defiance. 

"Think  I  heard  you  mention  it  once,  if  I'm  not 
mistaken,"  he  replied,  "as  a  nice,  quiet  place  to  take 
a  rest." 

In  the  meantime  Sally,  oblivious  to  the  interlude, 
had  pushed  on  through  the  gate. 

"Good  Heavens !"  She  turned  to  Grissom,  as  the 
three  walked  together  up  the  path  bordered  by 
Hilda's  flowers.  "Look  at  all  these  people!" 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  "they've  been  driving  up  for 


56  SALLY    SALT 

hours.  Personally,  I  haven't  been  able  to  do  a 
thing;  but  I'll  back  you  up,  Mrs.  Salt,  to  any  extent, 
if  that  will  be  the  least  assistance." 

"It  may  be,"  said  Sally  serenely.  She  viewed  the 
group  on  the  porch  with  a  sort  of  laughing  scorn, 
nodded  to  them,  and  then  passed  on,  without  knock- 
ing, into  a  low,  narrow  room.  It  was  illy  lighted 
by  one  small  window,  and,  coming  in  from  the  broad 
sunshine,  Sally  for  a  moment  or  two  could  distin- 
guish nothing,  but  as  her  eyes  became  accustomed  to 
the  shadow  she  could  see  that  it  was  rilled  with 
women  and  a  few  men.  In  the  center  of  the  group, 
with  a  clear  space  around  him,  sat  a  slight,  delicate 
lad  of  ten  or  eleven  years.  His  face  was  very  pale, 
his  mouth  drooped  piteously,  and  there  was  an  ex- 
pression of  terror  in  his  eyes.  He  turned  his  head 
a  little  as  Sally  entered,  and  the  expression  of  satis- 
faction which  had  dawned  on  his  face  at  the  sight  of 
her  deepened  to  happiness  when  Streatham  followed 
her. 

"Tony!"  he  cried  in  shrill,  tremulous  joy,  and 
stretched  out  his  arms. 

As  if  summoned  by  those  childish  tones,  a  woman 
came  forward  from  a  doorway  at  the  back.  She 


BEYOND   THE   HILLS  57 

was  tall  and  large  of  frame,  taller  than  Sally,  and 
her  face  was  like  granite,  set  and  square.  Her 
smooth,  perfectly  unwrinkled  skin  showed  none  of 
the  etchings  of  age,  but  had  retained  a  noticeably 
firm  texture,  indicating  her  impassive  disposition. 
The  dark  hair  was,  in  contrast,  thickly  sprinkled 
with  gray,  and  the  eyes  were  black,  murky  and  un- 
fathomable. Her  voice  was  as  suave  and  smooth  as 
her  slow  smile,  but  it  held  none  of  the  refinement 
that  was  inherent  in  the  tones  of  both  Hilda  and  her 
father. 

Sally,  and  indeed  most  of  those  present,  had  a 
sense  of  something  lacking  or  missing  about  Mrs. 
Hurd.  She  did  not  seem  entirely  to  complete  the 
outlines  of  their  customary  mental  picture  of  her, 
and  few  of  them  paused  to  consider  that  this  was 
due  to  the  absence  of  "Trip,"  an  aged,  woolly,  black 
dog,  and  her  invariable  companion.  He  was  the 
only  object  for  which  she  ever  showed  the  least  af- 
fection, and  was  now  securely  locked  up,  lest  an 
over-wrought  public  sentiment,  at  present  inimical 
to  dogs,  might  demand  his  sacrifice. 

"Howdy,  Mis'  Salt,"  she  said  civilly.  "Won't 
you  take  a  chair?" 


58  SALLY   SALT 

"No,  I  thank  you,  Mrs.  Kurd.  I  just  stopped  for 
a  moment." 

"Thank  you,  Mis'  Salt.  My  neighbors  certainly 
have  been  kind;  but  seeing  that  I've  always  had  to 
bear  my  burdens  and  responsibilities  alone,  I  guess  I 
can  keep  on  doing  it  to  the  end.  I  ain't  much 
afraid  of  responsibilities."  She  spoke  with  meek  hu- 
mility. 

The  conversation  was  polite,  apparently  friendly ; 
yet  the  stolid,  weary,  sallow  people  leaned  forward 
expectantly.  The  atmosphere  was  charged  with 
electricity.  It  was  combat  now,  and  every  spectator 
responded  to  this  new  demand  upon  their  waiting 
interest.  For  the  moment  the  cause  of  contention, 
the  pale,  delicate  boy,  was  forgotten.  The  pro- 
longed, fluctuating  excitement  of  waiting  for  the 
manifestation  of  symptoms  which  should  thrill  them 
to  the  center  of  their  sordid  beings  and  afford  them 
infinite  opportunities  thereafter  for  dramatic  recital 
and  portrayal  was,  for  the  moment,  eclipsed  by  the 
cyclonic  Sally,  who  had  more  than  once  hurled  her- 
self menacingly,  even  devastatingly,  across  their 
skies. 

But  the  irresistible  force  met  the  immovable  body, 


BEYOND   THE   HILLS  59 

and  in  the  first  clash  the  irresistible  force  proved 
unequal.  Mrs.  Hurd  had  the  advantage.  It  was 
hot,  high  impetuosity  against  unyielding  imperturb- 
ability. Sally  lost  ground  inevitably,  for  she  lost 
her  temper.  It  would  have  served  her  cause  better 
could  she  have  played  the  diplomat ;  but  she  was  of 
the  soldierly  temperament,  and  went  bluntly  to  the 
heart  of  the  matter. 

"Mrs.  Hurd,"  Sally's  voice  rang  positively,  "I 
want  Harris  to  come  to  me  for  a  few  days.  It  is 
absolutely  necessary  to  get  him  away  from  here." 
She  looked  in  bright  scorn  over  the  group.  "All 
this  noise  and  excitement  is  enough  to  throw  a  per- 
fectly well  child  into  convulsions." 

There  was  a  slight,  quizzical  contraction  of 
Streatham's  brow;  he  gave  a  faint,  characteristic 
twitch  of  his  shoulders,  as  if  too  late  he  realized 
that  he  and  not  Sally  should  have  managed  this 
affair.  He  had  been  kneeling  on  the  floor  beside 
Harris,  talking  to  him  and  examining  the  wound 
upon  his  leg.  Now  he  looked  up  with  his  most  in- 
gratiating and  winning  smile. 

"The  wound  really  amounts  to  nothing,  Mrs. 
Hurd,"  he  said,  "but,  after  all,  a  little  change 


60  SALLY    SALT 

wouldn't  be  a  bad  thing.  It's  good  for  all  of  us 
now  and  then." 

"Ah,  yes,  let  him  come  to  my  house  for  a  few 
days,"  urged  Sally,  who  had  realized  too  late  that 
high  authority  and  command  were  not  methods 
which  could  prevail  with  Mrs.  Hurd. 

The  woman  looked  from  Sally  to  Streatham  and 
back  again.  There  was  no  change  in  her  set  face, 
but  there  was  the  swiftly  extinguished  flash  of  a 
hard  triumph  in  her  murky  eyes. 

"Well,  he  can't  go,"  she  said,  with  a  sort  of  pas- 
sive definiteness.  "He's  my  child,  and  I  have  a 
right  to  his  last  moments." 

"But  there  need  be  no  last  moments,  Mrs.  Hurd," 
Sally  of  the  high  command  still  controlled  herself 
to  plead. 

"Oh,  mother,  let  me  go!"  Harris  lifted  his  voice 
in  timid,  childish  appeal. 

At  the  sound  of  the  unmistakable  longing  in  his 
tone,  her  face  set  more  grimly  than  ever,  but  she 
made  no  answer  to  his  plaint,  nor  did  she  reply  to 
Sally  directly.  "Nobody  shall  deprive  me  of  my 
child  at  such  a  time  as  this,"  she  spoke  without  pas- 
sion, but  with  an  impersonal,  fanatic  force. 


BEYOND    THE    HILLS  61 

Audible  approval  of  this  sentiment  rippled 
through  the  room. 

"See,"  one  of  the  women  spoke  up  eagerly,  "he 
can't  even  look  at  that  pan  of  water.  He  keeps  a- 
turning  his  head  further  and  further  away  from  it, 
as  if  something  was  drawing  him." 

"That's  so,"  a  man  corroborated  her. 

"Fools!"  breathed  Sally,  with  sapphire  lightnings 
of  the  eyes. 

"That's  my  brother,  Mis'  Salt,"  Mrs.  Kurd's 
voice  was  lifted  in  humble  reproof,  "and  he's  acting 
according  to  his  lights." 

"I'm  sure  of  it,"  Streatham  spoke  with  cheerful 
haste,  before  Sally  could  reply.  "But  Harris  and  I 
are  planning  to  go  fishing.  We  promise  to  bring 
you  a  string  of  fresh  fish  every  morning.  Ah, 
come,  Mrs.  Hurd,  do  not  deprive  us  of  that  pleas- 
ure." Anthony  was  to  his  utmost  persuasive. 

Maria  Hurd  looked  at  him  steadily,  with  no  ex- 
pression in  her  unreadable  eyes,  and  yet  there  was 
apparent  a  firmer  set  to  the  jaw.  Then,  after  her 
fashion,  she  dropped  her  eyelids. 

"You  may  mean  kind,  Mr.  Streatham,  and  Mrs. 
Salt  may  mean  kind,"  submissively,  "but  if  it's  the 


62  SALLY    SALT 

Lord's  will  for  my  child  to  get  well,  he'll  get  well, 
and  if  it's  the  Lord's  will  for  him  to  die,  he's  goin' 
to  do  it  under  his  own  mother's  roof  and  under  his 
own  mother's  care." 

Streatham  turned  away  with  a  slight,  hopeless 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  But  Sally  was  not  yet  dis- 
couraged. She  was  looking  beyond  them  all  intro- 
spectively,  her  sight  turned  inward,  and  meanwhile 
she  bit  her  red  lower  lip.  She  realized  with  a  dis- 
gusted impatience  of  her  own  blundering  that  she 
had  made  a  mistake  in  her  approach  of  Mrs.  Kurd, 
but  she  still  did  not  contemplate  failure.  It  was  as 
impossible  for  her  to  leave  that  boy  in  that  house  as 
it  would  have  been  to  abandon  a  kitten  starving  by 
the  wayside,  or  a  fledgling  fallen  from  the  nest. 
She  was  of  the  soldierly  temperament,  true,  but  she 
was  also  a  woman.  Therefore  the  arts  of  the  diplo- 
mat were  not  altogether  unknown  to  her,  and  she 
meant  to  reach  Maria  Kurd,  but  how,  how  ? 

She  bent  her  eyes  upon  the  sister  who  so  mightily 
withstood  her.  Mrs.  Hurd  stood  calm,  indifferent 
of  scrutiny,  her  eyes,  as  usual,  cast  down,  and 
Sally's  glance  tore  at  her,  keen  to  miss  no  meaning 
expressed  by  the  flesh.  She  knew,  intrepid  Sally, 


BEYOND   THE   HILLS  63 

that  she  must  agree  with  her  adversary  quickly,  that 
she  must  pierce  this  hard  impassivity  to  the  very 
springs  of  motive,  and  while  she  scanned  and  studied 
she  marshalled  in  her  mind  and  pieced  together  all 
that  she  had  ever  heard  or  known  of  Maria  Hurd. 
She  remembered — ah,  it  came,  the  clue  for  which 
she  had  been  waiting!  Her  nostrils  quivered,  her 
eyes  widened  for  the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"Mrs.  Hurd,"  she  said,  "will  you  come  out  into 
the  kitchen  with  me  a  moment  ?  I  want  to  speak  to 
you  alone." 

She  led  the  way  herself  through  the  open  door 
and  down  a  step  or  two  into  a  small,  neat  kitchen. 
The  older  woman  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  she 
followed  her  willingly.  More  pleadings?  Well,  it 
was  good  to  see  this  proud,  successful  Sally  Salt 
vainly  abase  herself. 

Sally  closed  the  door  carefully,  thus  shutting  out 
the  eager  peering  faces  behind  them. 

"Now  we  can  talk,"  she  said  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
"Look  here,  Mrs.  Hurd !  Harris  isn't  going  to  die. 
Let  him  come  and  visit  me  for  a  week  or  two." 

And  now  Mrs.  Hurd  stood  no  longer  with  broad 
calm  eyelids  lowered,  but  gave  Sally  Salt  the  full 


64  SALLY    SALT 

benefit  of  her  inscrutable  gaze.  To  do  her  justice, 
the  woman  had  been  perfectly  sincere  in  her  use  of 
primitive  remedies,  and  in  her  belief  that  Harris 
was  better  at  home  than  among  other  surroundings ; 
but,  in  spite  of  her  unyielding  attitude,  she  was  yet 
more  or  less  impressed  by  Streatham's  opinion  that 
the  boy's  injury  was  slight  and  that  he  was  not  in 
the  danger  her  neighbors  and  friends  would  have 
her  believe,  and  this  morning  her  opposition  to 
Streatham  and  his  suggestions  had  really  been  op- 
position to  the  opulently  arrogant  Sally  Salt. 

So  now  the  moment  was  doubly  sweet  and  must 
be  prolonged.  Sally  Salt  should  beg  and  beg,  and  in 
vain.  So  she  shook  her  head  without  speaking,  yet 
not  too  decisively.  Imperious,  imperial  Sally  must 
be  kept  on  her  knees,  figuratively  at  any  rate ;  must 
plead  further. 

But  to  plead  wearied  Sally.  She  took  or  she  let 
alone.  It  was  the  moment  for  trumps.  She  played 
them.  Her  voice  was  as  crisp  as  a  flail. 

"Let  me  take  Harris  with  me  this  morning,  and 
I'll  give  you — twenty-five  dollars." 

At  her  words  Mrs.  Kurd's  whole  face  changed. 
The  fixed,  immobile  mask  broke  up,  melted,  flowed 


BEYOND   THE   HILLS  65 

into  expressive  life,  repulsive  in  manifestation,  but 
vital  at  last.  Under  the  domination  of  her  secret 
passion,  her  tall  figure  became  supple  and  subtle ;  it 
leaned,  yearned  toward  Sally;  the  long,  fleshy  fin- 
gers curved  inward  and  clutched.  A  moment  of 
revelation  of  her  hidden  and  consuming  hunger, 
then  she  regained  her  immobile,  granite,  self-con- 
trol. 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Mrs.  Salt,  but  I  couldn't 
think  of  it  for  a  minute."  She  shook  her  head. 

Sally  waited. 

"Of  course,"  Mrs.  Hurd  twisted  the  corner  of  her 
apron,  "unless  you  get  the  doctor  to  take  all  respon- 
sibility, and  tell  folks  that  he  literally  ordered  Har- 
ris off." 

"Oh,  he  will,"  Sally  assured  her  easily,  "and  you 
can  tell  them  that  he  ordered  and  I  coaxed  until  you 
just  had  to  give  in." 

"M-m-m."  Mrs.  Hurd  was  a  picture  of  meek 
resignation.  "But  not  for  twenty-five,  Mrs.  Salt. 
That  wouldn't — " 

Sally  was  ruthless.  "That  or  nothing,"  airily. 
"You  can't  raise  me  that  way.  Twenty-five  or 
nothing." 


66  SALLY    SALT 

The  adversary  sighed.  She  recognized  defeat, 
and  wasted  no  time  in  debate.  "And  the  money, 
Mrs.  Salt?"  the  finger-tips  curled  involuntarily,  de- 
sire flamed  in  her  eyes.  "Do  I  get  it  right  off  ?" 

"This  minute."  Sally  lifted  the  skirt  of  her  gown 
and  from  a  pocket  in  her  petticoat  took  out  a  flat, 
brown  pocket-book.  "There,"  "counting  out  the 
bills.  "Now  for  Harris." 


CHAPTER   V 

ON   THE    KNEES   OF   THE   GODS 

.  NESBIT  and  Mrs.  Hill  sat  upon  the 
porch  patiently  awaiting  Sally's  return. 
They  were  quite  capable  of  sitting  there  indefinitely, 
if  there  was  even  a  faint  show  of  a  bit  of  news. 

They  were,  however,  rewarded  before  noon  by 
seeing  Sally  and  Harris  and  Grissom  drive  up. 
Grissom  had  calmly  borrowed  an  old  white  horse 
and  an  equally  ancient  buggy  of  Mr.  Hurd,  and 
Sally  had  gratefully  accepted  this  means  of  convey- 
ance rather  than  expose  Harris  to  the  glare  of  the 
noonday  sun.  Although  the  little  boy  shrank  nerv- 
ously against  her  and  clutched  tight  both  her  gown 
and  her  hand,  his  face  had  lost  something  of  its 
pallor  and  its  piteous  expression  of  fright. 

"There,"  said  Sally,  after  she  had  thanked  Gris- 
som and  she  and  the  child  had  passed  through  the 
gate,  "now  run,  play  and  explore.  See,  here  is  one 
of  my  kittens,"  picking  up  a  little  gray  fluff-ball. 

67 


68  SALLY    SALT 

"It  has  a  hurt  paw,  and  can't  walk  about  and  see 
things.  Suppose  you  carry  it  about  to  get  the  air, 
and  when  you  both  get  tired  of  that,  come  back  to 
me  and  we  will  find  something  else  to  amuse  us." 
She  placed  the  kitten  carefully  in  his  arms,  and  he 
started  off  on  his  journey  of  inspection. 

"How  d'  do,  Mrs.  Salt?"  Mrs.  Hill  spoke  with  a 
punctilious  politeness  which  conveyed,  without  sub- 
tlety, a  reproof.  "Isn't  that  little  Harris  Kurd?" 

"It  is,"  said  Sally  laconically. 

"Well,"  Mrs.  Hill  settled  herself  in  her  chair,  "I 
stopped  in  there  this  morning,  just  to  show  that  I 
thought  of  them.  It's  been  a  solemn  time  for  Har- 
ris and  his  family,  and  the  neighbors  certainly  did 
show  their  sympathy.  Everybody  seemed  to  feel 
that  it  was  their  plain  duty  to  go  and  help  the  Hurds 
bear  their  burdens." 

"I  assure  you  they  were  doing  it,"  said  Sally 
dryly.  "Oh,"  rising  impatiently,  "half  the  mischief 
in  the  world  is  caused  by  the  missionary  spirit,  and 
most  times  it's  just  plain  meddling.  It's  a  blessed 
privilege  to  bear  your  own  troubles;  it's  the  only 
way  to  learn  anything,  and  I'll  thank  any  one  to 
leave  me  and  my  troubles  alone." 


ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS  69 

"Ain't  you  peppery,  though!"  commented  Mrs. 
Hill. 

"Sally,  Sally,  you,  who  were  born  for  deeds  of 
mercy,  to  talk  so,"  laughed  Lucy  Fairish,  who  had 
just  strolled  up. 

"It's  my  form  of  dissipation,"  groaned  Sally.  "I 
suppose  I  hate  the  meddling  spirit  so  because  I've 
got  it.  Makes  me  think  of  my  old  grandmother. 
She  was  a  lively  old  lady,  spry  as  a  cricket,  and  al- 
ways managing  and  bossing  her  own  and  every  one 
else's  affairs;  but  when  she  got  to  be  about  eighty 
years  old  she  said  that  she  had  lived  a  long  time,  and 
that  she  had  always  observed  that  those  who  re- 
ceived special  consideration  in  this  world  were 
those  who  reached  out  and  grabbed  it.  She  said 
that  she  had*  always  missed  the  petting  and  the  cod- 
dling the  weak  sister  gets,  because  she  had  spent 
most  of  her  life  in  the  engine-room  oiling  the  ma- 
chinery, and  it  got  so  that  everybody  finally  took  it 
as  a  matter  of  course  that  the  engine-room  was  just 
about  the  fitting  place  for  her,  and  that  the  wheels 
went  round  without  friction  because  it  was  their 
nature  to,  and  no  one  even  gave  her  credit  for  the 
free  use  of  oil. 


70  SALLY    SALT 

"But  she  said — my  grandmother  did — that  it's  a 
law  of  human  nature  that  every  one  has  to  go  off  on 
a  spree  now  and  then.  She  said,  'I  don't  care  what 
kind  of  a  spree  it  is,  whether  liquor  or  religion,  an 
orgie's  an  orgie;  and  the  orgie  I  want  is  the  satis- 
faction of  seeing  folks  wait  a  bit  on  me  before  I  die.' 
So  she  took  to  her  bed,  saying  she  was  old  and 
weak  and  had  earned  a  rest,  and  she  guessed  her 
time  had  come,  and  she'd  probably  be  bedridden 
and  helpless  for  the  rest  of  the  little  life  that  re- 
mained. But,  goodness,  how  she  made  them  work! 
She  kept  one  of  her  daughters  that  had  been  used  to 
sitting  all  day  in  a  chair  and  just  about  embroider- 
ing her  life  away,  reading  hymns  and  novels  to  her 
all  day  long;  and  another  one,  that  was  continually 
gadding  about,  she  kept  running  up  and  down  stairs 
bringing  her  this  and  that  from  morning  to  night. 
They  tried  every  way  in  the  world  to  rouse  her. 
One  of  the  girls  would  say,  'Mother,  the  house  needs 
cleaning  dreadfully,'  or  'Somebody  ought  to  be  mak- 
ing the  jelly,'  but  the  old  soul  never  turned  a  hair. 
'I  can't  be  bothered  with  such  perishing  matters,' 
she'd  say;  'I  got  my  immortal  soul  to  think  of.' 
And  the  preacher  would  tiptoe  in  and  pray,  and 


ON    THE    KNEES    OF   THE   GODS    71 

friends  would  bring  her  the  news  and  a  little  jelly, 
and  she  said  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  felt 
important. 

"Well,  house-cleaning,  or  bad  cooks,  or  moths  in 
the  carpet,  couldn't  feaze  her ;  but  at  last  something 
did.  She  said  to  her  daughter  one  day,  'What's 
that  I  smell  ?' 

"  'It's  the  wood  fire  that's  been  built  in  the  back 
yard  so's  we  can  boil  the  soft  soap.' 

"  'Who's  a-stirring  of  it  ?'  said  my  grandmother. 

"  'Henry,'  answered  her  daughter,  mentioning  the 
handy  man. 

"  'Oh,  Lord !'  groaned  my  grandmother,  'and  he'? 
no  more  use  than  my  foot.  Raise  me  up  on  some 
pillows  so's  I  can  see  how  it's  going,'  she  ordered. 

"Well,  the  next  thing  they  heard  was  a  scream — 
'He's  letting  it  boil  over !' — and  before  they  knew  it 
my  grandmother  had  streaked  down  those  stairs  in 
her  nightgown  and  was  out  stirring  the  soap. 

"Of  course,  after  that  she  couldn't  take  to  her  bed 
again.  It  was  the  engine-room  and  oil-can  for  hers. 
So,"  concluded  Sally,  smiling  down  humorously  at 
Lucy  Parrish,  "you  see,  I  come  naturally  by  my 
bossing.  Why,  here's  Harris  again !" 


72  SALLY    SALT 

The  little  boy  ran  down  the  path  to  her  and  hid 
his  face  in  her  dress,  shaking  with  nervous  fright. 
Sally  stooped  and  put  her  arms  about  him.  "I  smell 
cookies  in  the  oven,"  she  cried,  sniffing  the  air. 
"Let's  go  and  see  if  Aunt  Mandy  hasn't  some  ready 
for  us — lovely  little  brown  ones.  Come  on,  Lucy, 
we  are  going  to  play  for  the  rest  of  the  day." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  clutched  Mrs.  Hill's  knee.  "Did  you 
see  him?"  her  teeth  chattered.  "And  she  brought 
that  child  here  with  no  thought  of  me.  How — how 
soon,  Hetty  Hill,  how  soon  do  you  think  he'll  begin 
to  bite?" 

"From  the  looks  of  him,  I  should  say  any  minute." 
Mrs.  Hill  rose  and  seized  firmly  a  large  black  um- 
brella which  she  carried  as  a  protection  against  the 
sun.  "I'd  try  not  to  be  too  friendly  with  him  if  I 
was  you.  They  say  they  often  turn  on  their  best 
and  dearest,  and  yet  you  can't  tell.  I've  heard  just 
as  many  tales  about  their  taking  spite  out  on  those 
that  don't  notice  them.  You  can't  tell  about  it; 
you've  just  got  to  leave  it  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord. 
Who's  that  a-coming?"  looking  down  the  road. 
"Oh,  it's  that  Streatham.  I  never  did  have  any  use 
for  him,  so  I  guess  I'll  get  out  of  the  way  quick. 


ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS  73 

Why  do  you  suppose  he  didn't  drive  home  with 
Mrs.  Salt?" 

Streatham  indeed  had  been  loitering  by  the  way 
for  purposes  of  his  own.  He  had  remained  at  the 
Kurds'  for  a  season,  talking  to  old  Mr.  Hurd,  and 
had  then  slowly  sauntered  along  the  highroad,  quite 
aimlessly  to  all  appearance.  Half-way  to  Buckeye 
Farms  he  had  thrown  himself  under  a  large  tree 
and  lay  there  in  the  shade,  gazing  about  him  with 
contented  and  lazily  observant  eyes.  There  he  lay, 
enjoying  the  panorama  of  nature,  until  old  Fanny, 
the  Hurd  horse,  ambled  into  sight.  Then  Anthony 
rose  and,  playfully  imitating  the  manner  of  the 
professional  highwayman,  held  up  the  conveyance, 
and,  inviting  Grissom  to  take  him  a  drive,  stepped 
into  the  old  buggy  while  it  was  still  moving. 

Grissom  laughed  a  little,  grimly,  cynically,  amus- 
edly and  comprehendingly.  "I  bet  I  can  guess 
why,"  he  said. 

"You're  so  modest,"  remarked  Anthony.  "You 
always  think  people  have  some  ulterior  reason  for 
seeking  your  society.  It  was,  I  remember,  a  marked 
trait  of  yours  even  in  boyhood." 

"I've  had  reason  to  think  so,"  grinned  the  other 


74  SALLY    SALT 

man,  although  still  grimly.  "But  what's  the  use, 
now,  Streatham?  In  the  first  place,  it's  none  of 
your  business,  although  I  know  that  that  fact  won't 
keep  you  from  meddling  in  anything  you  choose." 

"Why  should  you  wish  to  deprive  me  of  the  exer- 
cise of  my  profession  ?"  said  Tony  sadly,  "especially 
when  it's  the  only  one  I've  got.  And  you  must  ad- 
mit that  my  meddling  is  ever  actuated  by  a  desire 
to  do  good  to  others." 

"It  looks  as  if  you  were  about  to  depart  from  that 
straight  and  narrow  path  in  this  instance,  then." 
The  other  man  spoke  dryly. 

"Again  you  do  me  wrong.  To  tell  the  truth,  I 
don't  care  for  anything  that  hasn't  a  spice  of  danger 
in  it,  and  I've  lived  long  enough  to  know  that  the 
most  dangerous  thing  in  the  world  is  to  meddle  in 
other  people's  affairs,  especially  when  you're  trying 
to  do  them  good.  Can't  you  see,  then,  the  almost 
irresistible  fascination  it  has  for  me  and  the  value 
of  my  present  renunciation?" 

Grissom  gave  him  a  long  and  rather  puzzled  look. 
"Then  what  is  your  game?  If  you're  not  here  to — 


"Rescue  Red-Riding-Hood  from  the  wolf/'  sup- 


ON  THE  KNEES  OF  THE  GODS  75 

plemented  Anthony.  "No,  that  wouldn't  interest 
me.  For  all  I  know  it  might  be  one  of  those 
matches  made  in  heaven." 

"But  that's  your  game,  Tony;  you  can't  throw  me 
off  the  scent,  or  pretend  it  isn't.  I've  got  intuitions ; 
have  to  have  'em  in  my  line.  I  suppose  that's  the 
objection — my  calling?  Isn't  that  the  name  the 
preachers  give  their  trade?"  with  another  of  his 
mirthless  smiles. 

"Well,"  Streatham  had  been  occupied  in  getting  a 
light  for  his  cigarette,  in  spite  of  a  rather  strong 
breeze,  and,  having  succeeded,  he  leaned  back  and 
again  gave  his  mind  to  the  subject  in  hand,  "admit- 
ting that  that  is  my  game,  I  am  not  playing  it  from 
the  conventional  and  usual  motives  that  you  are 
mentally  imputing-to  me." 

"What  other  motive  could  there  be  ?"  asked  Gris- 
som  with  the  slightest  of  sneers. 

"Oh,  bah!  Don't  talk  rot.  What  does  interest 
me  is  this:  Can  the  waste  of  a  rare  and  lovely 
thing  be  prevented  ?  Is  such  a  thing  possible  in  this 
world  of  chance  and  mischance?  There's  a  won- 
derful career  stretching  before  this  country  Red- 
Riding-Hood.  She  has  a  voice  of  a  quality  that's 


76  SALLY    SALT 

known  only  to  the  angels  in  Heaven,  and  there  is 
some  strange  temperament  behind  it.  I  can  not  tell 
what  is  is,  Grissom;  I  can  never  define  it  even  to 
myself,  hard  as  I've  tried.  It  escapes  me.  It  will 
escape  you.  But  what  will  be  left  of  that  voice  and 
that  career  if  you  drag  her  through  the  mud?" 

"Another  jeer  at  my  calling,"  with  his  harsh 
laugh.  "And  I  thought  your  objections  were  not 
the  usual  and  conventional  ones." 

"Bosh.  I  care  nothing  about  the  ethics  or  philos- 
ophy of  this  thing,  Griscom;  I'm  discussing  prac- 
tical issues.  I've  got  a  belief — don't  know  whether 
there's  anything  in  it  or  not — that  a  great  gift  al- 
ways carries  with  it  its  terrible  first  commandment. 
It  speaks  insistently  to  its  possessor,  Thou  shalt 
have  no  other  gods  before  me.  You  must  worship 
me,  love  me  wholly,  serve  me  entirely.  Seek  your 
happiness  in  other  paths,  and  I  send  my  lightnings 
upon  you,  starve  you,  burn  you,  freeze  you.'  I  be- 
lieve that  any  one  who  has  a  voice  like  Hilda  Kurd's 
must  crave  more  than  anything  else  the  perfect  ex- 
pression of  it.  You  know  that  your — er — calling  is 
fraught  with  peculiar  dangers;  an  accident  disas- 
trous to  your  career  may  occur  at  any  moment. 


ON    THE    KNEES    OF   THE   GODS    77 

Then  what  about  her  career?  The  woman  who 
lives  with  you  and  cares  for  you,  no  matter  if  she 
condones  your  method  of  life  or  even  approves  of  it, 
is  nevertheless  under  the  strain  of  a  ceaseless  fear 
and  anxiety,  and  when  you  consider  what  that 
would  mean  to  a  nature  so  abnormally  sensitive  as 
Hilda's — "  Anthony  flicked  his  cigarette  into  the 
roadside  and  turned  heatedly  to  his  companion. 
"By  God,  man,  who  are  you  to  deny  the  world  the 
joy  of  that  voice?  Association  with  you,  Grissom, 
can't  help  but  take  the  unearthly,  sexless  rapture 
out  of  it." 

Grissom  also  turned.  There  was  one  swift,  dan- 
gerous gleam  in  his  eye ;  then  his  face  set  like  stone. 
"Look  here,  Streatham,"  he  said,  "that's  all  right 
enough,  and  maybe  true  enough ;  but  you're  no  fool 
and  you're  no  hypocrite.  Neither  am  I.  Now,  I've 
thought  about  everything  you've  said,  a  good  deal 
longer  and  a  good  deal  harder  than  you  ever  have. 
But  she  will  probably  fall  in  love  with  some  one. 
She  will  probably  marry  some  one.  Then  why  not 
me  ?  You  know  I  don't  think  that  I  am  any  worse 
than  most  of  our  prominent  citizens,  or  even  than 
the  average  business  man;  and,  cards  on  the  table, 


78  SALLY    SALT 

Streatham,  I  love  her  and  she  loves  me.     Now,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

"Nothing.  Not  a  damn  thing,  Grissom.  It's  on 
the  knees  of  the  gods  now.  Pull  up  old  Fanny  and 
let  me  get  out." 


A   WILE   OF   SATAN 

is  coming;  she's  quite  sure  of  it  this 
time,"  said  Lucy  Parrish,  walking  into  Sally's 
kitchen  the  next  morning.  Sally  was  making  jam 
in  the  big,  cheerful  room  with  east  windows  which 
admitted  great  patches  of  sunlight. 

To  think  of  Sally  was  to  picture  her  moving  in 
sunlight,  encompassed  in  its  glow  and  radiance. 
Her  kitchen  was  her  pride ;  it  had  need  to  be  large 
and  well-equipped,  fitted  with  all  modern  and  labor- 
saving  devices,  for  it  fed  many  in  the  course  of  a 
year. 

Wherever  it  was  possible  Sally  had  white  tilings, 
and  wherever  it  was  possible  she  had  copper  vessels, 
and  the  sunshine  dazzled  over  the  floor  and  white 
copper-hung  walls  and  over  Sally's  copper  head  and 
white  dress,  and  threw  into  splendid  ebony  relief 
the  figure  of  "Aunt  Mandy,"  with  her  red  and  yel- 
low bandana  twisted  about  her  head.  She  was 

79 


8o  SALLY    SALT 

standing  by  a  table  kneading-  bread  and  crooning 
camp-meeting  songs  under  her  breath,  while  Sally 
bent  over  a  great  kettle  of  jam  on  the  stove. 

Through  the  open  window  came  in  wafts  the 
faint,  pungent  breath  of  thyme,  for  the  kitchen 
looked  out  upon  its  garden  of  supplies — parsley- 
bordered  beds  of  aromatic  herbs,  the  clear  little 
artificial  stream,  its  sides  bordered  with  cress, 
wonderful  blue-green  cabbage  heads,  rows  of  spring- 
ing corn,  tomatoes  turning  red  in  the  midsummer 
sun,  bean  vines  in  long  festoons  over  their  poles. 

"What  is  it  ?"  said  Sally  absently. 

"Anne  really  wants  to  come,"  repeated  Lucy,  ag- 
grieved that  her  tidings  of  woe  should  be  so  indiffer- 
ently received. 

"Well,  let  her  come."  Sally  continued  to  skim 
her  kettle  of  black,  bubbling  fluid,  puffing  out  its 
rich  fragrance  in  gusts  of  steam.  "Harris  is  all 
right  this  morning,  and  that's  such  a  relief  that  I 
could  welcome  the  devil  himself." 

"The  devil  would  be  a  lot  more  interesting  than 
Anne."  Lucy's  tone  was  still  disconsolate.  "I 
could  forgive  her  anything  but  her  cheerfulness  at 
the  breakfast  table." 


A   WILE   OF    SATAN  81 

"The  breakfast  table's  a  mighty  good  place  to 
keep  quiet  at,"  said  Sally  absently,  leaning  over  her 
bubbling  pot.  "There's  more  murder  committed  in 
the  heart  at  the  breakfast  table  than  anywhere  else. 
It  takes  a  strong  constitution  to  stand  up  under  toe 
much  cheerfulness  at  the  wrong  time." 

"But  can  I  not  write  her  that  she  mustn't  come 
now?"  pleaded  Lucy,  "that  Mr.  Streatham  is  here 
now,  and  consequently  there  will  be  no  room  for 
her?" 

"You  can  do  as  you  please,"  said  Sally,  never  lift- 
ing her  eyes  from  the  pot,  although  a  deep  flush,  the 
flush  which  the  mention  of  Streatham's  name  always 
caused,  spread  even  to  her  brow.  "Ah !"  with  evi- 
dent relief  as  the  door  slowly  opened  and  there 
peeped  in  a  pretty  mulatto  girl,  Aunt  Mandy's 
daughter,  and  a  maid  in  the  house.  She  was  a  small 
creature,  with  an  exquisite  figure  and  a  bewitching 
face,  demurely  daredevil ;  her  skin  like  cream,  deep- 
ened to  a  sweep  of  warm,  dusky  shadows  about  the 
long  odalisque  eyes  and  in  the  faint  hollows  of  her 
throat;  her  mouth  was  as  full  and  scarlet  as  a 
pomegranate  flower,  and  her  coarse,  heavy  hair  lay 
about  her  head  in  black,  shining  waves. 


82  SALLY    SALT 

As  she  had  nothing  to  say,  apparently,  Sally 
asked,  with  the  touch  of  relief  still  lingering  in  her 
tones :  "What  is  it,  Wilmerdine  ?" 

"Nothin'  'tall,  Miss  Sally,"  she  drawled  in  her 
soft  voice.  "I  just  wanted  to  speak  to  mothah." 

"I  don'  want  nothin'  to  say  to  you,"  returned 
Aunt  Mandy  with  cold  obduracy,  "a  gal  dat's  actin' 
like  you  is !" 

"What's  Wilmerdine  doing  now?"  asked  Sally 
with  an  indulgent  smile 

"W'at  she  doin'  now?  Wat  she  doin'  now? 
Ain't  she  always  in  mischief?"  asked  her  mother 
shrilly.  "Well,  now's  de  worst  yit.  She's  done 
took  up  with  Uncle  Poodle,  dat's  w'at." 

"Uncle  Poodle !  What  on  earth  do  you  mean  ?" 
Sally  straightened  up  and  ceased  to  give  the  jam  her 
earnest  scrutiny,  transferring  it  instead  to  the  pretty, 
sulky  creature  lounging  in  the  door.  "Why,  Uncle 
Poodle  is  at  least  sixty-five  years  old !" 

"That's  it!"  said  her  mother  still  more  wrath- 
fully.  "Here  you,  Blossom !"  aiming  an  ineffectual 
kick  at  a  fleeing  gray  cat.  "I'll  break  a  broomstick 
over  yo'  back  'fore  yo'  know  whar  you  at.  Yas'm. 
Here  she's  got  her  pick  of  all  de  young  fellows 


A   WILE   OF    SATAN  83 

around.  Smaht,  likely  boys,  an'  she  drap  de  whole 
of  dem  to  run  after  a  old  wuthless  ape  like  Uncle 
Poodle." 

"Uncle  Poodle !"  The  jam  boiled  over,  but  Sally 
stood  transfixed,  spoon  in  air.  Before  her  eyes 
rose  the  vision  of  Uncle  Poodle,  old,  ugly,  bent  with 
rheumatism,  ever  grumbling,  playing  Corydon  to 
this  airy  Phyllis. 

"She  natchally  can't  let  nothin'  in  trousers  alone, 
dat  girl!"  Aunt  Mandy  threw  another  baleful 
glance  at  Wilmerdine,  who,  with  shoulders  raised 
and  a  half-deprecating,  half -sullen  smile  at  the  cor- 
ners of  her  mouth,  still  leaned  against  the  lintel. 
"Blossom  ain't  de  only  one  dat'll  have  a  touch  of  de 
stick  across  dar  shoulders,"  threateningly.  "I  ain't 
raised  dat  gal  right,  Miss  Sally,  an'  I's  a-payin'  for 
it.  Ain't  you  seen  how  de  beds  is  half  made  and 
de  rooms  half  swep'?  Dat's  her.  An'  ain't  you 
seen  how  de  gyarden  look,  de  flowers  not  half 
watered,  de  grass  dryin'  up?  'Cause  why?  'Cause 
every  time  Uncle  Poodle  try  to  work,  she's  a-callin' 
to  him  and  a-chasin'  him.  My  Lawd !"  with  a 
vicious  slap  at  the  mass  of  puffy  white  dough  on  the 
board. 


84  SALLY    SALT 

Sally  had  by  this  time  regained  her  composure. 
"What's  the  attraction,  Wilmerdine?"  she  asked 
briskly. 

The  girl  looked  at  her,  a  slow  gleam  in  her  eyes, 
as  if  laughter  lurked  somewhere  behind  the  surface. 

"He's  got  somethin'  the  boys  ain't  got,  Miss  Sally. 
'Sperience." 

"  'Sperience !"  broke  in  her  mother  hotly. 
"  'Sperience  in  rheumatics  and  shirkin'  his  work." 

"And  does  he  return  your — your  interest?"  Sally 
again  assiduously  skimmed  the  jam. 

Wilmerdine  looked  down  and  then  up.  "No'm, 
he  ain't,"  a  secretive,  conscious,  triumphant  smile 
about  her  lips,  the  gleam  in  her  eye  feminine,  in- 
scrutable, deepening.  "That  is,  he  ain't — yet." 

"Wilmerdine !"  Sally  reproved  now,  "why  are  you 
trying  to  turn  his  poor  old  head  and  make  him  un- 
happy? I  never  thought  you  capable  of  such  van- 
ity. Why,  it's  wicked." 

Wilmerdine,  petted  and  unused  to  reproach, 
pouted.  For  the  first  time  she  essayed  a  defense. 
"It  ain't  vanity,  Miss  Sally.  But  Uncle  Poodle,  he 
ain't  never  speak  to  me,  or  so  much  as  look  at  me, 
and  when  I  try  jus'  to  say  a  word  to  him  in  passin' 


A   WILE   OF    SATAN  85 

now  an'  then,  he  jus'  look  over  my  head  an'  say, 
'Go  'long,  gal.  You  ain't  nothin'  but  a  wile  of 
Satan.'  That's  what  he  call  me,  Miss  Sally,  an'  I 
ain't  goin'  to  have  nobody  speakin'  to  me  that  way. 
I'm  goin'  to  show  him." 

"And  when  you  do  turn  his  head,  which  is  exactly 
what  you  set  out  to  do,"  Sally  spoke  plainly,  "what 
then?" 

But  Wilmerdine  shrugged  her  shoulders  irrespon- 
sibly. That  was  for  the  gods  to  settle. 

While  Sally  had  lent  ear  to  Aunt  Mandy's  com- 
plaints and  exhorted  Wilmerdine,  Lucy  Parrish  had 
slipped  through  the  door  and  into  the  kitchen  gar- 
den, and  thence  had  wandered  on  through  Sally's 
bright  beds  of  flowers,  and  it  was  there  that  John 
Witherspoon,  who  had  come  riding  down  the  road 
from  his  own  adjacent  property,  found  her. 

"You  look  like  a  peach  blossom  in  that  pink 
frock,"  he  said  as  he  stood,  tall  and  sedate,  awaiting 
her  between  two  great  tubs  of  blooming  oleander, 
which,  in  a  way,  marked  the  entrance  to  the  garden. 
"But  your  face  is  a  study  for  Melancholia.  What 
is  it?" 

"Anne,"   said  Lucy  tragically.     "She's  coming, 


86  SALLY    SALT 

and  Sally  won't  say  she  shan't.  If  I'm  a  study  for 
Melancholia,  it's  Anne,  and — and  other  things." 

The  garden  afforded  delightfully  cool  spaces,  and 
it  was  in  these  shaded  alleys  that  Lucy  and  Wither- 
spoon  loitered,  where  the  trees  spread  a  dome  of 
green,  sun-transparent,  above  them,  and  the  emerald 
moss  unrolled  its  encroaching  velvet  carpet  over  the 
damp  paths.  On  either  side  there  were  ferns  and 
those  flowers  which  bloom  and  grow  in  cathedral 
seclusion.  Out  where  the  sunlight  fell  intermit- 
tently the  day-lilies  spread  their  broad,  shining 
leaves,  the  long,  pointed  white  buds  gleaming 
through  them  like  snow,  and  fuchsias  swung  their 
richly-hued  bells,  purple  and  scarlet;  but  entirely 
beyond  the  shade,  free  of  it,  were  courts  and  mazes 
of  color,  poppies  that  pitched  their  crinkled,  silken 
tents  of  a  day;  nasturtiums,  flame  and  gold  and 
scarlet — Parsees  worshipping  the  sun  and  reflecting 
its  glow ;  geraniums,  heliotrope  and  mignonette,  and 
beyond  them,  in  the  aristocratic  reserve  and  seclu- 
sion they  prefer,  roses,  a  garden  of  them. 

"Now,  tell  me,"  said  Witherspoon,  pausing  in  the 
path,  "why  you  look  a  little  sad  and  pale  this  morn- 
ing. That  is  not  all  Anne?" 


A    WILE   OF    SATAN  87 

"It's  my  frock ;  pink  takes  the  color  out  of  me," 
began  Lucy  bravely;  then  her  lip  trembled,  a  tear 
stood  in  the  depths  of  her  dark  eye,  "Life  wears 
on  me,"  she  said,  lifting  her  childish  gaze  to  his. 
"It  seems  so — so  monotonous." 

"Monotonous!     With  Mrs.  Salt?"  he  exclaimed. 

"Oh,  Sally!  Sally's  a  strong  breeze  that  blows 
from  the  north,  south,  east  and  west ;  but  she's — oh, 
she's  a  she."  Lucy  sighed  again.  "You  remember 
Kipling,  don't  you?  'A  woman  is  only  a  woman; 
but  a  good  cigar  is  a  smoke.'  Well,  I  want  what- 
ever is  the  symbolic  equivalent  of  a  smoke.  It 
means  to  me  all  the  things  I've  missed  in  life. 
Why,  I've  never  had  any  of  the  experiences  most 
girls  have.  I  was  barely  out  of  my  teens  when  I 
was  married.  He  was  nice  and  kind  and  took  me 
about  the  world  and  gave  me  a  lot  of  pretty  things — 
and  then  died  and  left  me  a  load  of  money  and  you 
my  trustee.  Oh,  I  know  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
myself,  ever  to  grumble.  Sally  tells  me  so,  fre- 
quently. I  dare  say,"  she  admitted  candidly,  "the 
truth  of  the  matter  is  that  I  have  too  much  time  on 
my  hands." 

"In  other  words,"  looking  down  at  her  tenderly 


88  SALLY    SALT 

and  laughingly,  "you  are  badly  in  need  of  an  interest 
in  life." 

"Just  so,"  she  assented  eagerly,  her  mercurial 
temperament  responding  to  the  suggestion  in  flushed 
cheek  and  sparkling  eyes,  "but  it  must  be  a  nice  in- 
terest, not  just  a  plain,  ordinary  one,  but  a  vivid, 
iridescent  one,  with  lots  of  color  and  excitement." 

"A  romance,"  he  suggested. 

Lucy  caught  at  the  words.  "That's  it.  A  ro- 
mance. I'm  twenty-five  years  old,  and  I've  never 
had  one  in  my  life,  anything  even  approaching  one. 
But," — with  a  suddenly  falling  face,  "you  can't 
have  a  romance  without  a  man,  and  there  are  no  men 
here." 

"There  is  myself,"  said  Witherspoon  modestly. 

"You?"  To  Lucy's  annoyance  her  eyes  faltered 
and  fell,  her  laughter  rang  false.  "But  that  is  im- 
possible. You  are  my  trustee." 

"You  say  it  as  if  you  meant  executioner."  With- 
erspoon could  not  keep  the  amusement  out  of  his 
tones,  and  yet  his  smile  was  rueful. 

"Nonsense !"  Lucy  endeavored  to  explain.  "You 
catch  up  one's  words  so.  But  you  must  admit  there 
doesn't  seem  anything  very  romantic  about  a  trustee. 


A   WILE   OF    SATAN  89 

£Jow,"  petulantly,  "stop  laughing.  You  have  no 
right  to  take  things  personally.  I  am  speaking  of 
a  trustee  in  his  official  capacity." 

"How  does  an  executor  seem  to  you?"  asked 
Witherspoon.  They  had  left  the  shaded  alleys  now 
and  were  strolling  through  the  sun-lighted,  deli- 
ciously  fragrant  rose-garden.  Lucy  had  unfurled 
a  sun-shade,  pink  as  the  petals  which  strewed  the 
path. 

"Oh,  an  executor !  Well,  purely  in  his  official  ca- 
pacity— you  mustn't  take  this  in  a  personal  sense,  re- 
member— he  seems  a  sort  of  cross  between  an  uncle 
and  a  private  detective." 

"Have  I  impressed  you  that  way?"  the  amuse- 
ment in  Witherspoon's  tones  was  almost  obliterated 
by  anxiety  and  dismay. 

"Oh,  don't  be  absurd.  Of  course  not.  I  was 
speaking  of  trustees  in  their  official  capacity,  you 
remember." 

They  had  reached  an  old  rustic  seat  at  the  end  of 
the  garden,  and  now  they  sat  down.  Lucy  tilted  her 
sunshade  over  her  shoulder  so  that  it  cast  rose  re- 
flections over  her  gown  and  face,  the  wind  blew 
among  the  roses,  scattering  the  petals  over  the  grass, 


po  SALLY    SALT 

blowing  eddies  of  white  and  pink  and  crimson  at 
their  feet. 

"''Look  here,  Lucy  Parrish,"  said  Witherspoon,  as 
if  just  struck  with  a  .new  idea,  "as  a  trustee,  who  is 
really  a  more  decent  creature  than  you  imagine,  my 
aim  is  to  gratify  your  wishes  as  far  as  possible. 
Now  you  are  longing  for  romance.  So  since  the 
circumstances  of  the  case  prevent  your  having  a  real 
romance,  why  not  amuse  yourself  with  an  imitation 
one.  Pretend  for  the  next  few  months  that  you  are 
living  a  romance  and  that  I  am  the  hero  of  it." 

Lucy,  eternally  feminine,  with  the  heart  of  youth, 
looked  at  him  as  a  child  gazes  at  one  who  has  pro- 
posed a  new  and  fascinating  game. 

"But  I  have  known  you  so  well  and  so  long. 
Would  it  be  possible?"  she  doubted  naively  sincere. 

"Oh,  quite  simple,  truly,"  Witherspoon's  tone  was 
gravely  reassuring.  "You  have  only  to  pretend 
hard  enough.  I  know  I'm  rather  old,  almost  forty, 
and  a  little  stiff  in  the  joints  for  a  Romeo,  but  I 
haven't  forgotten  all  the  rules  of  the  game,  believe 
me." 

"But  it  mustn't  be  any  staid,  middle-aged  ro- 
mance," insisted  Lucy  anxiously.  "I  want  the  fool- 


A   WILE   OF    SATAN  91 

ish,  delightful  kind  that  Anne  would  want  if  she 
were  anywhere  near  her  own  age." 

"I  understand,"  he  again  reassured  her,  and  Lucy, 
since  she  did  not  look  up,  saw  neither  the  laughter 
nor  the  tenderness  of  his  eyes.  "Who  is  that?"  he 
leaned  forward,  hearing  the  click  of  the  gate. 

Lucy,  too,  bent  forward.  "Oh,  it  is  Hilda!  She 
has  come  to  see  Harris.  Is  that  that  Grissom  man 
with  her?" 

"Yes,  and  not  a  proper  companion  for  her,  I'm 
sure,  by  Jove !  He  does  look  a  bad  customer — that 
fellow." 

Hilda  lingered  at  the  gate,  wavering  back  and 
forth,  uncertain  in  her  anxiety  to  go  and  her  desire 
to  remain.  And  Grissom,  who  stood  on  the  outside 
of  the  closed  gate,  resting  his  arms  nonchalantly  on 
the  top  bar  of  it,  while  he  held  an  earnest  conversa- 
tion with  the  girl,  was  surely  the  antithesis  of  her 
ethereal,  wind-flower  beauty. 

Now,  although  she  had  advanced  and  retreated, 
and  looked  up  and  down,  and  shaken  her  head  in 
dissent  and  nodded  it  in  affirmation,  he  had  not 
changed  his  position,  nor  withdrawn  his  eyes  from 
her  face,  until  he  succeeded  in  winning  from  her  the 


92  SALLY    SALT 

answer  he  desired.  Then  he  lifted  his  hat  in  punc- 
tilious courtesy,  replaced  it  and  turned  to  go. 

Little  Harris  had  by  this  time  seen  his  sister,  and 
he  ran  down  the  path  to  meet  her,  flying  a  kite  be- 
hind him.  Hilda  stooped  and  put  her  arms  about 
him,  kissing  him,  and  laughing  and  crying  over  him 
at  the  same  time.  Then  together  they  walked  to  the 
kitchen. 

"Good  morning,  Hilda,"  called  Sally,  who  was 
filling  jar  after  jar  with  rich  jam,  so  fragrant  that  a 
bee  or  two  had  buzzed  through  the  window  in  an  ad- 
venturous quest  for  this  new  and  delicious  odor. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Salt!"  she  cried,  "isn't  it  splendid  to 
see  Harris  as  he  is  this  morning?" 

"Indeed  it  is,  Hilda.  By  the  way,  you  had  com- 
pany as  far  as  the  gate,  didn't  you  ?" 

Hilda's  eyes  wide  and  luminous  met  Sally's  tran- 
quilly. "Yes,  Mr.  Grissom.  He  was  telling  me  that 
he's  going  away  for  a  few  days." 

Sally  straightened  herself  up  from  the  jam-pots. 

"You're  a  pretty  girl,  Hilda,"  she  said,  coolly 
surveying  the  fawn-like  creature  from  head  to  foot, 
"an  awfully  pretty  girl.  You  can  pick  and  choose, 
if  you  want  to  marry;  but  don't  be  economical  in 


A   WILE   OF    SATAN  93 

your  beaux.  Have  all  you  want  about  you,  but  don't 
confine  yourself  to  one,  yet  a  while.  I  just  saw  the 
other  day  a  terrible  example  of  the  senselessness  of 
economizing.  Now,  I  stopped  in  to  see  Susan  Fink 
a  minute,  and  I  was  no  sooner  seated  than  she  asked 
me  what  was  my  especial  economy.  I  told  her  I 
hadn't  any.  I  was  entirely  too  busy  to  economize. 
Once  begin  that  sort  of  thing  and  it  gets  such  a  hold 
on  you  that  you  can't  think  of,  nor  do  anything  else. 
You  just  spend  all  your  time  studying  about  that. 
Now,  there's  Susan  Fink.  If  the  angel  Gabriel 
would  offer  her  a  corner  lot  in  Heaven,  she  would 
say:  'I  haven't  got  time  to  listen  to  you.  I've  got 
to  study  how  to  get  a  patch  on  this  old,  worn-out 
apron,  so's  it  will  last  a  week  or  two  longer !'  Oh !" 
Sally  was  her  impatient  self  now,  tossing  her  red 
head.  "People  are  always  drawing  long  faces  and 
saying  that  other  people  don't  know  the  value  of 
money.  There's  such  a  thing  as  having  entirely  too 
much  reverence  for  a  dollar.  We  worship  it  a  lot 
more  than  we  ever  do  God.  But  it's  just  the  same 
with  men.  Have  all  the  beaux  you  want,  Hilda, 
but  don't  get  economical  about  them.  It  don't  pay 
to  be  stingy  in  that  respect." 


CHAPTER   VII 

MRS.    KURD    GOES    HALVES 

TWILIGHT  was  dropping  blue  veils  over  the 
hillsides,  and  the  white  mists  wavering  up 
from  the  valleys  met  and  mingled  and  melted  into 
that  mysterious  and  light-holding  gray  which  lies 
between  the  afterglow  of  sunset  and  the  dense  black- 
ness of  night;  a  solemn  and  tender  shadow  which 
blurs  the  color  and  outline  of  beauty,  effacing  the 
cruder  graces  that  the  inner  and  spiritual  meaning 
may  be  manifest ;  and  which  also  enfolds  the  sordid 
and  commonplace  until  the  whole  landscape  becomes 
a  monotone  suggesting  loveliness  without  contrast. 
Hilda  Hurd  was  out  in  the  soft  dusk  watering 
her  flowers,  making  endless  journeys  to  an  old 
wooden  pump  at  the  side  of  the  house,  and  return- 
ing with  her  watering-pot  running  over,  for  her 
flowers  drank  water  thirstily  during  these  days  of 
hot  July  sunshine.  She  was  singing  half  under  her 

94 


MRS.    HURD    GOES    HALVES         95 

breath,  as  she  worked,  a  curious  little  minor  song 
with  a  soft,  reiterated,  falling  refrain.  Mrs.  Kurd, 
a  composed,  almost  granite  figure,  sat  in  a  large 
creaking  rocking-chair  on  the  porch,  resting  after 
her  day's  toil,  while  Mr.  Kurd,  always  restless  as 
night  drew  on,  wandered  up  and  down  the  road. 
He  finally  disappeared,  and  Hilda,  among  her  tall, 
velvet-petaled  hollyhocks,  after  casting  an  anxious 
glance  about  for  him,  paused  and  listened  intently, 
peering  down  the  highway.  Satisfied,  apparently, 
she  stood  irresolute  for  a  moment,  and  then,  as  if 
going  for  another  pail  of  water,  picked  up  the  rusty 
pot  and  walked  swiftly  and  quietly  behind  the  house. 
From  the  clump  of  trees  opposite  the  garden, 
which  stretched  away  into  a  belt  of  woodland,  there 
came  at  rhythmic  intervals  wafts  of  cooler  air,  as 
if  the  earth  were  breathing  out  again  the  freshness 
of  the  morning;  now  and  again  a  bird  woke  and 
twittered  sleepily,  the  croak  of  frogs  in  a  meadow 
pond  rose  clear  and  shrill,  the  night-blooming  flow- 
ers, beloved  of  the  moths,  began  to  open  their  starry- 
cups,  and  now  Mrs.  Hurd  was  the  only  human  figure 
in  the  landscape,  gazing  before  her  with  ruminative, 
inscrutable  eyes  as  if  engrossed  in  some  inward  cal- 


96  SALLY    SALT 

culations,  unmindful  of  the  mystic  moment  when 
day  gives  full  place  to  night,  and  gathering  her 
half-lights  and  gleams,  speeds  to  a  further  dawn. 

Presently  the  gate  clicked,  and  the  solitary  woman 
of  the  porch  bent  forward  to  see  who  was  the  occa- 
sion of  this  notification  of  arrival ;  and  then  a  slow, 
satisfied  smile  spread  over  her  features.  Leisurely, 
big  of  frame,  the  county  sheriff,  Jake  Washburne, 
took  the  narrow  way  between  Hilda's  flowers,  which 
he  so  far  overtopped  as  not  to  see  them,  a  stolid, 
powerful,  heavily-built  man,  with  a  broad,  deeply- 
tanned  face,  small,  quick-moving  blue  eyes  and  a 
mouth  thin  as  a  gash. 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Hurd."  He  sat  down  heav- 
ily on  the  steps  without  awaiting  a  request  to  do  so. 

"Good  evening,  Jake,"  with  as  much  cordiality  as 
it  was  possible  for  her  to  express.  "Here,  take  a 
chair.  Don't  sit  down  there." 

"This  is  good  enough  for  me,"  he  said  indiffer- 
ently. "I  don't  want  a  chair.  Where's  Hilda?" 

Mrs.  Hurd  looked  about  her,  surprised  not  to  see 
that  the  girl  still  watered  her  flowers.  "Why,  she 
was  here  just  a  minute  ago.  She  can't  be  far.  Shall 
I  go  and  look  for  her?"  half  rising. 


MRS.    KURD    GOES    HALVES         97 

"No,"  he  shook  his  head.  "Wait  a  minute."  He 
sat  in  silence  for  a  few  seconds,  then  drawing  a 
cigar  from  his  pocket,  he  bit  the  end  off  of  it,  and 
forgetting  to  light  it,  sat  twisting  it  about  in  his 
fingers,  as  if  engrossed  in  some  new  thought.  At 
last,  recalled  to  himself,  he  drew  a  match  from  his 
pocket  and  lighted  the  cigar  and  puffed  at  it  two  or 
three  times,  as  if  not  fully  ready  to  speak. 

Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Hurd  waited,  manifesting  no 
impatience.  Mrs.  Hurd  had  not  an  impatient  na- 
ture. She  could  always  afford  to  wait. 

"No,"  he  took  up  the  thread  of  the  conversation 
where  it  had  broken  off  after  this  period  of  cogita- 
tion on  his  part  and  acquiescence  on  hers.  "Don't 
call  her.  It's  better  not.  I  came  on  purpose  to  see 
you  to-night,  not  her.  That's  unusual,  ain't  it?" 
with  a  short  laugh. 

Mrs.  Hurd  smiled  quietly  and  smoothed  out  her 
apron,  but  said  nothing.  Why  even  momentarily 
deflect  the  course  of  a  confidence  or  a  revelation 
by  an  excursion  into  the  vague  inanities  of  polite- 
ness? 

"Yes,"  he  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth  and 
spit  on  the  ground.  "Yes,  I'm  glad  Hilda  ain't 


98  SALLY    SALT 

around.  It  gives  me  a  chance  to  talk  over  some 
things  with  you  that  have  got  to  be  talked  over." 

Mrs.  Hurd  continued  to  smooth  her  apron.  Her 
eyelids  were  lowered,  her  mouth  complaisant.  In 
effect,  she  purred.  A  homely  group  in  a  humble, 
even  sordid,  environment,  and  yet  it  stood  for  an 
eternal,  human  picture,  a  mother  bending  ear  to  the 
hopes  and  fears  of  the  eligible  suitor;  the  priestess 
of  a  daughter's  destinies,  with  the  symbolic  fan  in 
one  hand  and  the  vessel  of  cold  water  in  the  other, 
ready  at  once  to  fan  the  flame  of  his  ardor,  if  neces- 
sary, or  to  quench  it  should  it  flare  to  such  high  con- 
fidence as  to  threaten  indifference. 

"Yes,"  and  honey  and  butter  melted  together  in 
her  tones,  "yes,  Jake." 

He  puffed  exasperatingly  at  his  cigar,  trying  even 
her  patience.  He  was  only  quick  when  his  hand  was 
on  the  trigger.  At  last  he  removed  the  cigar  from 
his  mouth  and  glanced  cautiously  about  him.  "Mrs. 
Hurd,"  carefully  lowering  his  voice,  "where's  Gris- 
som?" 

It  took  a  good  deal  to  startle  Mrs.  Hurd,  but  so 
sharp  and  unexpected  was  the  question,  so  obvious 
was  its  effect  of  some  sinister  and  underlying  mean- 


MRS.    KURD    GOES    HALVES         99 

ing,  that  it  might  be  said  she  almost  jerked  from  her 
attitude  of  ear-bending,  maternal  solicitude,  to  one 
of  startled  and  alert  attention  with  its  immediate 
and  skilfully  suppressed  hint  of  "on  guard"  about  it. 

"Grissom?"  she  repeated,  her  suave  and  stony  self 
again.  "Of  course,  you  mean  Grissom  that  takes 
his  meals  with  us.  There  ain't  any  other,  I  guess, 
around  here  anyways.  Why,  he's  off  somewheres 
for  a  day  or  so.  He'll  be  back  Tuesday." 

"Sure?"  the  question  was  as  sharp  as  the  report 
of  a  pistol. 

"Of  course."  She  looked  at  him  curiously. 
"Didn't  Hilda  get  a  letter,  this  morning,  saying  so?" 

"And  he  said  he'd  sure  be  back  on  Tuesday?" 
with  an  increasing  and  eager  insistence.  "He  didn't 
have  any  suspicions  ?" 

"Suspicions  ?"  she  repeated.  "Do  you  mean  about 
you  and  Hilda?" 

"Lord,  no !"  with  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "What 
do  I  care  what  he  thinks  about  that?  Look  here, 
Mrs.  Hurd,"  he  put  his  hand  in  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  coat  and  withdrew  it  empty,  "I  couldn't  show 
you  in  this  light,"  he  glanced  up  at  the  moon,  which 
was  just  rising,  a  great  yellow  disc  above  the  trees. 


TOO  SALLY    SALT 

"Let's  see,  can  you  bring  a  candle  out  here?  And 
say,  Mrs.  Hurd,"  as  she  got  up  from  her  chair, 
"just  look  about  a  little,  will  you,  and  make  sure 
that  Hilda's  no  place  about ;  and  if  she  is  can't  you 
send  her  over  to  a  neighbor's  a  minute  on  some  little 
errand  or  another?" 

Mrs.  Hurd  nodded  without  speaking  and  went 
into  the  house.  For  a  moment  or 'two  her  heavy 
voice  might  be  heard  calling :  "Hilda !  Hilda !"  but 
there  was  no  response.  Then  she  tried  the  fasten- 
ings of  some  of  the  windows,  closed  a  door  or  so 
and  reappeared,  holding  a  lighted  candle  in  a  black 
tin  candle-stick.  She  was  shielding  the  flame  with 
one  hand  and  it  threw  white,  sharply  defined  reflec- 
tions on  her  impenetrable,  cold  face  and  across 
murky  eyes. 

Washburne  made  a  place  for  her  on  the  step  be- 
side him  and  she  sat  down,  holding  the  candle  in 
her  lap,  still  carefully  shielding  the  veering  flame. 

With  another  glance  behind  him  toward  the  open 
door  at  his  back,  he  again  thrust  his  hand  into  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  coat  and  drew  out  a  folded  news- 
paper. Slowly,  he  unfolded  it,  and  then  by  the  light 
of  the  candle  he  pointed  out  to  the  woman  beside 


MRS.    KURD    GOES    HALVES        101 

him  a  smudged  half-tone,  which  might  easily  pass 
for  a  portrait  of  Grissom. 

"What  do  you  think  of  that?"  he  asked  triumph- 
antly. 

She  bent  above  the  paper  and  studied  it  in  every 
line  before  she  answered.  "That's  him,  sure,"  she 
lifted  her  head  and  spoke  with  final  conviction. 
"But,  Jake,  what  does  it  mean?  What's  he  been 
doin'  so  big  that  he's  got  his  picture  in  the  papers  ?" 

"Nothin'  very  strange  about  that,"  Washburne 
spoke  with  a  rough  indifference  plainly  affected, 
"seein'  as  he's  one  of  the  best-known  green-goods 
men  in  the  country.  Why,  he's  just  gold-bricked 
a  rich  farmer  in  Missouri,  him  and  a  pal  of  his.  Got 
fifteen  thousand  dollars  out  of  the  old  man.  Ac- 
cording to  account,  he  seems  to  be  a  general,  all- 
round,  high-class  crook.  What  was  that  ?"  he  cried 
sharply,  his  eyes  on  the  open  door  yawning  black  in 
the  whitewashed  wall. 

"What?"  she  asked  impatiently,  half-rising. 

"A  kind  of  a  long  sigh.  Made  me  shiver.  Sure 
there's  no  one  there?" 

"Sure!"  her  impatience  more  marked.  "Wasn't  I 
all  over  the  house?  The  windows  and  the  back 


102  SALLY    SALT 

doors  are  all  locked.  No  one  can  get  in  without 
my  hearing  them.  I'll  go  and  look  again,  if  you  say 
so,  but  it's  the  wind,  I  tell  you." 

"There  ain't  a  breath  stirring,"  he  affirmed  in- 
credulously. "No,  it  wasn't  that.  Oh,  well,  I  guess 
'twas  nothing,  after  all." 

"Of  course,"  she  agreed  contemptuously.  "But 
do  go  on." 

"Well,  to-day  I  got  a  letter  from  the  chief  of 
police  up  in  the  city,  saying  they  had  reason  to  sus- 
pect that  Grissom  was  somewhere  about  in  this  local- 
ity, and  giving  a  description  of  him  that  fitted  him 
to  a  T." 

Mrs.  Hurd  still  continued  to  study  the  news- 
paper portrait.  "It  says  here  that  his  name's  Curtis 
Hammond." 

"Just  so,"  he  replied  in  tones  of  easy  sophistry. 
"You  don't  suppose  Grissom's  his  real  name?  He's 
sure  to  have  a  baker's  dozen  of  'em.  But  it's  him. 
You  can  bet  your  last  dollar  on  that.  All  you  got 
to  do  is  to  look  at  him  to  know  he's  a  crook.  Of 
course,  feeling  as  I  do  to  Hilda,  it  wouldn't  have 
done  for  me  to  mix  in  before,  with  nothing  to  back 
me  up,"  deprecatingly,  "but  I  always  felt,  Mrs. 


MRS.    KURD    GOES    HALVES        103 

Kurd,"  now  in  tones  of  admonition,  superior,  easy, 
"that  you  weren't  right  in  takin'  him  in  like  you  did 
and  lettin'  Hilda  see  so  much  of  him.  I  don't  sup- 
pose his  flashiness  made  much  impression  on  her. 
Hilda  ain't  that  kind.  Still,  it  was  taking  a  risk. 
Yes,"  shaking  his  head  as  if  over  danger  averted  by 
the  merest  scratch,  "it  was  certainly  taking  a  risk. 
What  did  you  know  about  him  ?" 

'  She  glanced  at  him  sidewise  out  of  her  dull,  con- 
templative eyes,  as  if  his  moralizing  roused  in  her 
a  sort  of  slow,  indifferent  scorn.  "What  did  I  know 
about  him?  Nothing  except  that  he  put  up  his 
money;  that's  about  the  only  recommendation  that 
particularly  interests  me."  For  a  moment  she 
studied  the  moon-lighted  path  before  her,  her  jaws 
working  slowly,  as  if  she  chewed  her  words  before 
uttering  them,  then  she  turned  on  him,  a  flush  on 
her  cheek  and  a  smoldering  fury  in  her  eyes. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  anyhow,  Jake 
Washburne?"  and  all  the  sleekness  that  usually  oiled 
her  voice  had  vanished.  The  tones  were  harsh  and 
sharp  as  a  bark,  malevolent  as  a  snarl.  "Just  because 
— because  you're  jealous  of  Hilda  with  Grissom, 
you  go  hunting  up  crazy  resemblances  in  the  news- 


104  SALLY    SALT 

papers.  Hilda !"  This  sordid  and  brutalized  Mar- 
tha flung  out  her  whole,  secret,  invincible  contempt 
for  the  Mary  she  had  borne.  "What  you  or  Gris- 
som  either  see  in  her ! — "  She  stopped  abruptly,  re- 
stored to  caution.  "Look  here,  Jake,"  her  voice 
again  showed  the  use  of  oil,  it  was  explanatory,  in- 
gratiating, "you  know  as  well  as  anybody  what  I've 
had  to  do  on  this  farm;  I'm  not  only  the  head,  but 
the  hands  of  it  You  know  what  a  daft  fool  Kurd 
is,  and  as  for  Hilda,"  again  she  checked  herself, 
"Hilda  ain't  much  more  than  a  child.  Well,  you 
know  that  besides  the  farm,  I  make  something  tak- 
ing in  mealers.  My  cooking's  well  known,  and  if  I 
do  say  it  myself,  it  deserves  it;  but  of  all  the  sum- 
mer folks  that's  ever  taken  their  meals  with  me,  no 
one  has  ever  paid  me  the  prices  that  Grissom  has. 
City  prices,  Jake,  city  prices!"  There  was  pathos 
in  her  voice.  "And  then  you  come — "  her  accents 
broke  in  bitterness. 

"Wait  a  minute,"  said  Washburne,  spreading  out 
a  hand  toward  her,  explanatory,  soothing,  almost 
shaking  concessions  from  his  broad  fingers  and 
great  flat  palm,  "there's  a  reward  offered.  If  this 


MRS.    HURD    GOES    HALVES        105 

is  the  man,  and  of  course  it  is,  and  I  can  get  him, 
and  of  course  I  can,  I  get  the  reward." 

"A  reward!"  Mrs.  Kurd,  who  had  descended 
into  the  grave,  arose  to  new  and  vital  life.  "A  re- 
ward!" she  cried,  "a  reward,  Jake!"  Her  long, 
fleshy  ringers  closed  over  his  arm,  pressing  deeply 
into  his  hard  muscles.  "How  much?" 

This  was  Washburne's  moment,  and  he  allowed 
no  undue  haste  to  destroy  the  fine  flavor  of  it.  He 
cast  his  eyes  moonward  and  appeared  to  calculate, 
while  the  clutching  fingers  on  his  arm  increased 
their  tension.  "Let — me — see,"  he  dragged  each 
word  to  its  full  length,  "why — it's — just — twenty- 
five  hundred  dollars."  He  endeavored  to  keep  his 
voice  down  to  matter-of-fact  level,  but  it  broke  its 
tether  in  spite  of  him  and  soared. 

"What!"  it  was  a  low,  almost  breathless  gasp 
from  his  companion,  "twenty-five  hundred  dollars !" 
The  sum  received  from  her  its  due  meed  of  rever- 
ence. Then  its  contemplation  stirred  cupidity  and 
cupidity  induced  action.  "Give  me  that  paper!" 
She  almost  tore  it  from  his  hands  and  desperately 
scanned  it. 


io6  SALLY    SALT 

"And  you're  going  to  get  that  money?"  Her 
eyes  held  a  fierce  awe. 

"I  was  calculating  to.  That's  always  allowing 
that  things  go  right,"  falling  into  the  racial  super- 
stitious deference  to  the  powers  of  darkness.  But 
in  spite  of  this  propitiatory  humbleness,  his  voice 
sang  triumph. 

The  smooth,  cold  surface  of  her  face  broke  a  lit- 
tle and  hardened  again.  It  was  as  if  she  had  re- 
pressed a  smile. 

"Oh,  I  guess  not,  Jake,  I  guess  not,"  and  mild 
and  soothing  as  her  voice  was,  it  held  the  cold  steel 
of  conviction  which  sent  a  chill  of  apprehension 
over  him.  "I  guess  it  ain't  feasible.  Hilda's  the 
only  one  that  knows  his  address,  and  if  she  should 
suspect  that  you're  after  him,  and  a  reward,  she'd 
have  word  to  him  before  you  know  it." 

He  gave  one  brief,  contemptuous  chuckle  and 
looked  at  her  with  surprised  amusement.  Was  this 
the  woman  that  a  moment  before  had  almost  fright- 
ened him?  Why,  she  was  straw.  "You  can't  play 
any  games  like  that,"  he  said  coolly.  "Neither  you 
nor  Hilda  will  ever  have  a  chance  to  get  word  to 
him.  You'll  both  be  watched  from  the  minute  I 


MRS.    HURD    GOES    HALVES        107 

leave  here.  I  planned  for  that.  I  got  a  man  wait- 
ing to  go  on  duty,  down  the  road  a  piece."  He 
jerked  head  and  thumb  in  the  same  direction. 

Mrs.  Hurd  pressed  her  lips  together  and  brooded 
moodily  for  a  moment.  Then  her  face  lightened 
and  she  smiled  benignly  on  him. 

"How  do  you  think  Hilda  will  feel  toward  you, 
Jake,  when  she  learns  that  you  trapped  Grissom  and 
took  the  reward  ?  Hilda  likes  Grissom  mighty  well. 
Don't  make  any  mistakes  about  that,  Jake."  She 
softly  patted  his  arm. 

He  looked  at  her  a  moment  without  any  particu- 
lar expression  on  his  face,  studied  the  woman  with 
whom  he  had  to  deal  and  the  question  between  them, 
turning  both  over  in  his  mind  as  he  chewed  a  fresh 
cigar. 

"How's  Hilda  going  to  know  anything  about  the 
reward?"  he  asked. 

"Because  I  shall  tell  her  all  about  it,  Jake."  Her 
smile  made  her  cheeks  look  like  thick,  wrinkled 
cream. 

Washburne  rested  his  elbow  on  his  knee,  propped 
his  chin  on  his  hand  and  gave  the  moon  his  keenest 
Scrutiny. 


io8  SALLY    SALT 

"Supposing,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  you  and  I  do 
the  trick.  You  keep  Hilda  in  the  dark  about  it  as 
much  as  possible,  and  if  she  does  find  out  anything 
make  it  seem  like  it  was  a  sad  duty  forced  on. me  by 
my  position.  It's  got  to  look  like  I  was  acting  re- 
luctant." 

"Yes,  Jake,"  gently,  "I  understand.  And  we  go 
halves  on  the  reward." 

"Halves!"  he  repeated  blankly. 

"Yes,  halves,"  the  iron  broke  through  the  smooth 
texture  of  the  velvet  now.  "And  I  want  your  agree- 
ment to  that  in  writing  to-morrow  morning,  Jake. 
Don't  make  any  mistake  about  it ;  it's  halves  or  noth- 
ing." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

STREATHAM    TELLS  A   STORY 

E~JCY  PARRISH  ran  down  the  path  to  meet 
Witherspoon  at  the  gate.  The  great  yellow 
moon  was  sailing  through  a  sky  mysteriously  blue, 
the  air  was  sweet  with  all  manner  of  night  frag- 
rances; but  it  was  the  face  of  tragedy  that  Lucy 
lifted  to  his. 

"Anne's  here,"  she  announced  without  the  for- 
mality of  a  greeting. 

"Anne?"  even  the  composed  Witherspoon  looked 
blank.  "When  did  she  come?" 

"This  evening.  And  now,"  Lucy  was  almost  in 
tears,  "we  can't  have  any  more  fun  playing  at  ro- 
mance. She'll  know.  Some  way  or  other,  she  will 
discover  it.  She  always  finds  out  things,  that  is, 
things  you  are  particularly  anxious  that  she 
shouldn't." 

Witherspoon  pondered.  Inspiration  came.  "But 
109 


I  io  SALLY    SALT 

don't  you  see,"*  taking  her  hands  in  his,  "that  that 
adds  just  the  proper  element  to  the  romance.  It 
makes  it  twice  as  interesting  if  we  have  to  elude  her, 
throw  her  off  the  track  all  the  time.  Why,  Anne, 
for  purposes  of  romance,  can  be  any  number  of  per- 
sons ;  the  duenna  who  must  be  evaded,  the  tyrannical 
relative  who  seeks  to  part  us — oh,  all  of  the  well- 
known  fictional  characters.  Truly,  Lucy,  I  see  pos- 
sibilities in  the  situation." 

Lucy  brightened  with  one  of  the  lightning  changes 
of  her  mercurial  temperament.  "I  hadn't  thought 
of  that,"  she  cried. 

"Aunt  Lucy!  Aunt  Lucy!"  a  voice  from  the 
porch. 

Lucy  crouched  against  the  gate-post.  "H-s-sh! 
h-s-sh,  don't  answer,"  she  whispered.  "But  she  will 
come  anyway.  She'll  find  us,"  despairingly. 

"She  will  not  if  we  are  not  here,"  said  Wither- 
spoon  decidedly.  "Come,"  with  another  inspiration. 
Witherspoon  always  rose  to  executive  heights  under 
stress  of  emergency.  "Come,  we'll  row  up  the 
river." 

"And  get  some  water-lily  buds!"  cried  Lucy 
eagerly,  slipping  through  the  gate.  "And  then  I  can 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       in 

see  the  lovely  things  open  in  the  sunshine  to-morrow 
morning!" 

They  took  a  narrow  path  along  the  edge  of  a  field 
of  whispering,  rustling  corn,  and  then,  when  With- 
erspoon  had  unmoored  the  boat,  floated  out  on  the 
moon-lighted  river. 

"Oh!"  said  Lucy  with  a  sigh  of  content,  settling 
herself  back  comfortably  against  the  cushions,  "this 
is  delightful.  What  do  you  suppose  Sally  and  An- 
thony Streatham  are  doing  this  evening?" 

"Sitting  on  the  porch,  probably,  or  in  the  garden. 
They  are  living  the  real  romance,  not  playing  at  it" 
A  shadow  fell  across  Witherspoon's  face. 

"But  this  is  the  real  romance,"  expostulated  Lucy, 
"the  beautiful  moonlight,  and  the  water  all  flooded 
with  it,  and  the  deep,  mysterious  shadows  on  the 
banks.  If  only — "  Her  face  fell  a  little. 

"What  ?"  asked  Witherspoon. 

She  hesitated. 

"If  only  I  were  a  more  romantic  figure.  Do  not 
be  afraid  to  say  it,  Lucy.  But  do  you  not  see,  my 
dear,  that  here,  as  in  the  case  of  Anne,  you  have  to 
exercise  your  imagination  ?  Our  romance  is  largely 
constructive.  It  isn't  exactly  spontaneous,  you 


H2  SVLLY    SALT 

know,  because  it  involves  the  will  to  be  romantic. 
Therefore,  the  more  you  use  your  imaginative  fancy 
the  better.  Now,  you've  simply  got  to  see  me  as  a 
romantic  object,  no  matter  what  your  reason  tells 
you." 

"It  wasn't  that  so  much,"  Lucy  hastened  to  ex- 
plain, "as  that  it  seemed  only  half  a  feast.  Here  is 
moonlight  and  a  boat,  and  I  look  rather  nice,  do  I 
not,  with  this  mantilla  over  my  head  ?" 

"And  I  only  am  out  of  the  picture,"  said  Wither- 
spoon,  with  a  touch  of  his  dry,  quiet  humor. 

"But  you're  not,"  quickly  denying  his  statement. 
"You're  quite  in  it.  You  look  so  dark  and  distin- 
guished and  reserved." 

"Thank  you,"  he  managed  to  achieve  a  bow. 
"Then  what  is  bothering  you?  What  is  lacking  of 
a  whole  feast  ?" 

"Several  things.     Music,  and — " 

"But,  Lucy,  I  couldn't  touch  the  lute  and  row  too. 
And  if  I  sang  it  would  drive  all  thoughts  of  romance 
out  of  your  head." 

"But  poetry."  Lucy  advanced  this  tentatively. 
"You  could  recite  things." 

"Mm-m."     He  rowed  silently  for  a  few  minutes. 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       113 

"Go  on,"  urged  Lucy  encouragingly.  "You  have 
such  a  lovely,  deep  voice,  that  I  am  sure  you  recite 
beautifully." 

"But  I  don't  know  anything,"  said  Witherspoon. 
"I  can't  think  of  a  thing." 

"Oh,  but  there  are  such  lots  of  things,"  sighed 
Lucy.  "The  Last  Ride  Together,  or  By  the  Fireside, 
or  some  of  the  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese,  the 
one  beginning  'How  do  I  love  thee?  Let  me  count 
the  ways.' ' 

Witherspoon  shook  his  head.  "I  can't  do  it, 
Lucy.  I  don't  know  any  poetry.  I,"  desperately, 
"always  hated  it ;  and  now  I  can't  think  of  a  thing 
but  Woodman,  spare  that  tree!" 

Meanwhile,  as  Witherspoon  had  predicted,  while 
he  rowed  Lucy  through  the  moon-flood,  Streatham 
and  Sally  sat  on  the  porch  together ;  the  rest  of  the 
household  had  gone  within,  and  Streatham  sat  on 
the  step  below  Sally,  with  his  cheek  aga'inst  her  arm. 
For  a  few  minutes  there  had  been  an  unusual  silence 
between  them,  and  then  he  lifted  his  head,  sniffing 
the  odor  shaken  from  the  insignificant  green  bells  of 
a  night-blooming  jasmine  by  a  wandering  breeze. 

"Sally,  what  is  that  fragrance,  blown  straight  in 


H4  SALLY    SALT 

from  dreamland,  which,  combined  with  your  pres- 
ence, makes  me  realize  that,  as  Em-Emerson  says, 
'Life  is  an  ecstasy,  or  it  is  nothing'  ?  It  is  an  ecstasy 
to-night.  Look  at  the  moonflowers  opening  their 
big  white  cups  like  angels'  trumpets.  S-Sally, 
darling,"  with  a  long  sigh  of  content,  "this  is  one  of 
those  seasons  that  only  say,  'Live  and  rejoice.' ' 

"But  all  seasons  say  that,"  returned  Sally  simply. 
"To  live  is  to  rejoice." 

"Ah,  Sally,"  he  caught  her  hand  and  ardently 
pressed  his  cheek  to  it,  "that  is  what  distinguishes 
you  from  the  rest  of  this  dolorous  world  which  takes 
such  pride  in  its  dolor.  It's  the  joy  in  you,  Sally — - 
the  joy  that  springs  from  some  inner,  inexhaustible 
source,  from  the  deep  hidden  founts  of  being,  some 
unspoilable  harmony  of  nature." 

"Everybody  would  be  as  happy  as  I  am,"  said 
Sally,  "if  they  were  equally  well  and  strong  and  had 
as  much  to  interest  them." 

"Do  not  dream  it."  He  shook  his  head  positively. 
"It's  not  a  matter  of  a  strong  body ;  it's  the  eternal 
health  and  youth  of  the  spirit  expressing  itself." 

"Tony,  you  use  a  lot  of  big  words,"  Sally  an- 
nounced from  her  higher  position  on  the  top  step, 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       115 

her  chin  comfortably  cupped  in  her  hands.  "But 
the  real  reason  that  so  many  people  don't  enjoy  life 
is  because  they're  always  planning  to  do  so.  Pru- 
dence and  forehandedness  have  been  so  drilled  into 
us  that  we  don't  dare  enjoy  ourselves  until  every 
detail  is  arranged  so  that  we  may  do  it  properly,  and 
then  we  don't  care  anything  about  it.  It  makes  me 
think  of  the  time  I  went  to  Europe.  I,  too,  would 
be  forehanded  and  prudent.  Everything  was  all 
planned  on  schedules,  and  it  came  out  just  as  it  was 
planned.  And,  Tony,  the  horror  of  that  visit  hangs 
over  me  yet.  I  had  arranged  just  what  I  was  to 
admire  and  enjoy,  and  when  the  time  actually  ar- 
rived to  do  so  I'd  feel  like  a  clam,  or  as  if  I  were 
dead  and  looking  on  a  scene  which  held  no  further 
interest  for  me.  Then  I'd  stick  the  spurs  deep  into 
my  poor  paralyzed  emotions,  but  even  that  wouldn't 
draw  blood — just  a  little  water."  She  grimaced  at 
the  remembrance,  and  then  joined  in  Streatham's 
laughter. 

"I  do  not  believe  you,"  he  insisted  obstinately. 
"Nothing  could  damp  your  ardor.  Why,  Sally, 
your  joy  is  a  crucible,  and  into  it  I  cast  all  my  cyn- 
icisms and  unbeliefs,  evil  thoughts  and  deeds,  and 


3i6  SALLY    SALT 

behold,  they  are  transmuted,  glorified  into  the  most 
beautiful  and  enduring  illusions." 

"Where  did  you  collect  all  those  cynicisms  and 
unbeliefs,  Anthony?"  she  asked.  She  lifted  her 
chin  from  her  hands  and  looked  at  him  earnestly, 
interestedly.  "Be  frank,  for  once,  if  you  can,  and 
tell  me  something  about  yourself." 

"Psyche !"  he  murmured,  his  mouth  twisted  in  its 
most  whimsical,  cynical  smile.  "Bah!  the  drop  of 
oil  fell  on  my  nose,"  wrinkling  it  up  and  rubbing  it 
violently.  "And  it  burns,  Sally,  it  burns." 

"What  are  you  talking  about?"  She  looked  at 
him  perplexedly.  "Oh,  you're  trying  to  torment  me. 
Your  eyes  have  that  Satanic  gleam  in  them  which 
always  comes  when  you  try  to  tease  and  mystify 
people.  But,  Anthony,  seriously,  although  you  talk, 
talk  all  the  time,  you  never  really  tell  anything  about 
yourself.  Think  of  it!  You  have  been  coming 
here  for  three  years,  and  I  know  very  little  more 
about  you  than  I  did  the  first  day." 

"Thank  you."  He  drew  off  from  her  and  pulled 
an  imaginary  forelock.  "You  remove  far  from  me 
the  taint  of  provincialism.  In  the  world,  Sally,  the 
really  cosmopolitan  world,  people  never  talk  of  the 


STREATHAM  TELLS  A  STORY   117 

vain  and  passing  illusion  of  their  outer  lives.  And 
you  know  the  inner  me,  Sally." 

"Do  I  ?  In  your  own  words,  Tony,  do  not  dream 
it.  But  your  silence  on  that  one  subject,  yourself — 
goodness  knows  you're  not  silent  on  anything  else — 
is  uncanny.  It  makes  you  seem  so  mysterious. 
Didn't  you  ever  have  a  mother,  Anthony,  or  a 
home?" 

"'Oh  fair,  green-girdled  mother  of  mine'!"  a 
little  bitter,  far-away  smile  on  his  lips,  "early,  I 
sought  that  fair,  green-girdled  mother  of  mine, 
'mother  and  lover  of  men,  the  sea.'  And  for  a  home 
— why,  my  home  is  in  your  heart,  Sally." 

She  smiled  her  warm,  enfolding  smile.  "But  a 
real  home,  Anthony;  didn't  you  ever  have  one? 
Don't  you  ever  want  one  ?"  Pity  and  incomprehen- 
sion mingled  in  the  tones  of  Sally,  born  home- 
maker. 

In  the  moonlight  she  could  plainly  see  his  eyes, 
eager,  tired,  restless,  and  the  lines  seemed  to  deepen 
in  his  haggard  face — a  face  as  fascinating  and 
changeful  as  that  of  the  only  mother  he  claimed. 

"Oh,  Sally,  you  do  not  begin  to  know  the  vaga- 
bond call  of  the  blood,"  stammering  in  his  rapid 


Ii8  SALLY    SALT 

speech,  as  he  always  did  when  interested  or  excited. 
"You've  never  known  the  irresistible  lure  of  life,  the 
curiosity  that  stings,  the  zest  that  burns.  Life's  a 
cruel  mistress  and  a  sweet  one,  sweeter  than  honey. 
She'll  mock  and  flout  you  for  many  a  mile,  and  then 
she'll  relent  and  walk  with  you  a  bit,  and  slip  her 
hand  in  yours,  and  throw  her  silvery  mist  of  en- 
chantment over  all  the  earth.  Sometimes  she  sings 
her  siren  song  of  far  waters,  and  no  matter  where 
you  are  you've  got  to  go,  and  then,  when  she's  got 
you  out  of  sight  of  land  she'll  toss  you  a  whiff  of 
balsam,  a  breath  cf  pine,  and  there's  nothing  but  the 
woods  for  you,  and  you  follow  her  there.  But  after 
a  while  she  makes  you  feel  the  nightmare  of  the 
forest  silence,  the  horror  of  isolation,  until  you 
sicken  for  cities  and  men  and  women,  the  lights  and 
music,  the  talk  of  the  studios ;  and  it's  up  and  away 
again." 

"And  yet,  to  stay-at-homes  like  me  I  really  be- 
lieve that  life  offers  more  than  to  gadabouts  like 
you,"  said  Sally  shrewdly. 

"No  matter  how  much  it  offers,  you  know  before- 
hand what  the  offering  will  be,"  he  asserted;  "a 
damning  fact,  for,  Sally,  when  I  can  predict  with 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       119 

certainty  what  life  will  offer  at  the  very  ultimate  of 
abundance,  life  has  nothing  to  offer.  There  must 
be  infinite  expectation  and  no  limitation,  no  ties  that 
bind." 

"But—"  began  Sally. 

"Now,  stop  arguing."  He  was  weary  of  the  sub- 
ject; his  mood  had  changed,  and  he  shook  his 
cigarette  at  her  admonishingly.  "We'll  be  quarrel- 
ing presently.  By  the  way,  where  is  that  bright 
ornament  of  the  home  circle,  Ham — I  mean  Gris- 
som?  I  have  not  observed  him  communing  with 
nature  about  here  for  a  day  or  two." 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Sally.  "I  haven't  heard 
anything  about  him." 

"How  does — Grissom  impress  you,  Sally?  A 
fine,  imposing  man,  eh?" 

Sally  sniffed  contemptuously.  "A  fine,  imposing 
— er — er — what  do  you  call  them?  A  fine,  impos- 
ing confidence  man." 

Streatham  drew  back  a  little  in  evident  surprise. 
Then  he  cocked  his  head  on  one  side  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  sort  of  astonished  amusement.  "Clever 
Sally!"  His  eyes  were  shining.  "Well,  it  takes 
that  kind  to  get  the  big  money.  Those  who  are  in 


120  SALLY    SALT 

effect,  solid,  substantial,  business  men,  plausible,  con- 
vincing, even  hypnotic,  yes — decidedly  hypnotic. 

"Speaking  of  such  things,  there  was  a  funny  game 
played  on  an  old  farmer  in  the — the  West,  not  long 
ago."  He  laughed  in  irrepressible  amusement,  but 
underlying  the  mirth,  and  qualifying  it,  were  other 
emotions  which  infused  it  with  a  touch  of  resent- 
ment, a  hint  of  chagrin. 

"It  happened  this  way — I  saw  it  all  in  the  pa- 
pers :  A  man  like  Grissom  went  to  a  country  town, 
remained  long  enough  to  get  a  good  idea  of  the 
standing,  characteristics  and  all  that  of  the  various 
members  of  the  community.  Then  he  hired  a  con- 
veyance and  drove  to  the  home  of  a  wealthy  old 
farmer  who  lived  several  miles  in  the  country.  Ar- 
riving at  his  destination,  he  introduced  himself  to  the 
old  fellow  as  a  relative  of  the  richest  and  most  influ- 
ential families  in  the  town,  and  said  that  he  was 
visiting  them  for  the  present,  with  the  end  in  view 
of  buying  a  farm  in  the  locality.  The  farmer  saw 
his  great  business  opportunity,  and  after  some  con- 
versation, in  which  this  man  like  Grissom — we'll  call 
him  Grissom  for  convenience — succeeded  in  convinc- 
ing him  of  his  importance  in  the  business  world  and 


STREATHAM  TELLS  A  STORY   121 

the  value  of  his  vast  holdings,  they  started  out  to- 
gether to  look  over  one  of  the  old  man's  most  valu- 
able pieces  of  property. 

"As  they  were  'viewing  the  landscape  o'er'  a  sew- 
ing-machine agent  happened  along.  He  was  one  of 
these  audacious,  impudent  Smart  Alecks,  who,  when 
they  see  two  or  three  gathered  together,  simply  have 
to  butt  in,  an  undesired  but  talkative  third.  Imagine 
this  kind  of  a  fellow,  Sally — long,  lean,  lantern- 
jawed,  a  Yankee  twang,  chewing  gum  every  minute 
and  talking  at  the  same  time,  always  talking,  talking 
himself  to  skin  and  bone,  and  every  one  else  off  the 
earth."  Streatham  was  in  the  full  tide  of  his  story 
now,  and  impersonating  all  the  different  characters 
in  turn,  helping  out  his  stammering  speech  with 
plentiful  gesture.  "By  a  dint  of  cheeky  questioning 
the  agent  quickly  made  out  Grissom's  intention  of 
buying  a  farm,  and,  without  regard  to  the  feelings 
of  the  old  farmer,  began  belittling  the  property  be- 
fore them,  asserting  bumptiously  that  he,  personally, 
was  in  the  way  of  securing  better  land  at  a  better 
figure.  This  naturally  nettled  the  old  farmer,  and 
he  and  the  sewing-machine  agent  were  soon  in  a 
row,  a  fine,  hot  altercation. 


122  SALLY    SALT 

"At  its  height  the  agent,  swaggering,  bragging, 
loud-mouthed,  pulled  a  big  roll  of  bills  out  of  his 
pocket  and  offered  to  back  up  his  pretensions  by  bet- 
ting on  the  matter;  flourished  the  roll  under  the 
farmer's  nose,  counted  out  the  bills,  five  thousand 
dollars,  boasting  that  he  carried  about  with  him  more 
money  than  the  farmer  could  raise. 

"None  of  these  nice  little  banderillos  missed  their 
aim;  all  of  them  stuck  in  the  farmer's  hide,  just 
where  they  were  meant  to  stick ;  but  now  the  fanner 
Was  goaded  to  the  point  where  he  retorted  that  he 
was  not  in  the  habit  of  carrying  all  he  had  around 
with  him,  but  if  he  were  in  town  at  his  bank  he  could 
raise  twice  that  amount  in  ten  minutes.  The  agent 
sneers  and  at  this  point  Grissom  steps  in  with  his 
little  oil-can.  He  takes  the  old  man  aside,  and  after 
remarking  that  his  time  is  too  valuable  to  be  wasted 
this  way  he  says  impatiently :  'This  impudent, 
worthless  fellow  needs  a  lesson.  Why  don't  you 
take  him  up?  It's  a  sure  thing  for  you.  I'll  drive 
to  town  with  you  and  you  get  the  money.  He  can't 
back  down  now;  he's  gone  too  far,  and  it's  making 
five  thousand  dollars  without  turning  over  your 
hand.  It's  like  picking  gold  off  the  bushes/ 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       123 

"The  farmer  thinks  this  is  a  good  plan,  and  they 
start  off,  the  sewing-machine  agent  promising  to 
await  their  return,  and  hurling  taunts  after  them; 
and  on  that  drive,  Sally,  dear,  all  of  Grissom's 
trained  abilities,  his  consummate  knowledge  of  the 
whole  wide  range  of  human  weaknesses,  come  into 
play.  The  farmer  is  as  a  musical  instrument  to 
him,  and  he  sweeps  the  strings  with  a  master  hand, 
evoking  what  strains  he  will.  He  dazzles,  flatters, 
encourages  the  old  man;  praises  his  cleverness,  and 
excites  his  cupidity,  and — mark  this  well,  Sally — 
never  fails  to  give  him  the  strong,  recurring,  positive 
suggestion  that  he  must  mention  this  matter  to  no 
one,  that  it  would  excite  endless  gossip,  and  would 
look  very  badly  for  any  one  so  prominently  con- 
nected with  the  church  as  the  old  farmer  is  to  be  in- 
volved in  a  betting  transaction,  and  he,  Grissom, 
would  be  personally  deeply  chagrined  if  such  a  re- 
port were  circulated  about  him. 

"Well,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  the  farmer 
drew  the  money  and  drove  back  with  Grissom.  The 
sewing-machine  agent  awaited  them,  sitting  on  the 
fence,  swinging  his  long  legs  and  chewing  gum. 
His  fleers  and  jeers  were  still  on  tap,  running  as 


124  SALLY    SALT 

freely  and  freshly  as  water  from  a  spigot.  Then, 
after  some  preliminary  arrangement,  he  placed  his 
five  thousand  dollars  in  a  small  tin  box  which  Gris- 
som  held ;  the  farmer  laid  his  ten  atop  of  it.  Gris- 
som  turned  the  key  ancf  then  handed  it,  the  key,  to 
the  sewing-machine  agent,  and  placed  the  box  in  the 
farmer's  hands.  Then  the  old  man  drove  to  town 
alone  to  place  the  precious  box  in  a  safety  deposit 
box,  and  Grissom  and  the  sewing-machine  agent 
drove  off  in  the  opposite  direction  to  look  at  the 
farm  on  which  the  agent  had  the  option.  On  Mon- 
day— this  was  Saturday  morning — Grissom's  opin- 
ion and  that  of  several  competent  judges  of  land 
were  to  be  taken,  and  the  money  would  then  go  to 
the  man  whose  claim  to  the  most  valuable  land  was 
upheld." 

Here  Streatham  paused  dramatically. 

"Well,"  said  Sally.  "Well,  I  don't  see— if  the 
farmer's  land  was  the  best,  and  he  had  the  box  with 
the  money  in  it — " 

"That's  the  point,  Sally.  Did  he  have  the  box 
with  the  money  in  it  ?  When  he  broke  open  the  box 
Monday  morning,  no  bank-notes  began  to  sing 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       125 

their  crisp,  rustling  little  song.  The  box  held  only 
worthless  pieces  of  paper." 

"Sleight  of  hand !"  cried  Sally,  illuminated.  "And 
didn't  they  get  the  men?" 

It  was  a  warm  night,  but  a  little  breeze  from  the 
river  swept  over  the  garden,  and  Streatham  shivered 
involuntarily.  "Not  yet,  1  believe.  They  are  still 
at  large,"  he  answered. 

"Oh,  what  a  shame !" 

He  looked  up  at  her  quickly,  but  the  moor  had 
gone  under  a  cloud,  and  she  could  not  see  his  eyes. 

"I  don't  like  that  story."  Sally  stured  restlessly 
in  her  chair.  "It's  a  horrid  story;  all  about  a  low 
trick  of  wicked  men,  and  you,  Anthony,"  petulantly, 
accusingly,  "tell  it  as  if  it  amused  you,  as  if — well, 
as  if  you  put  yourself  in  their  places  and  knew  how 
they  felt.  I  hate  it.  I  wish —  Hark !"  She  stopped 
and  bent  forward,  listening.  "Is  that  some  one  com- 
ing up  the  path  ?" 

Streatham  lifted  himself  from  his  lounging  posi- 
tion and  peered  across  the  white  patch  of  moonlight 
into  the  scented  dark.  "Yes ;  it's  a  woman !" 

"Hilda  Kurd,  as  I  live !"  exclaimed  Sally.  "What 
under  the  sun  can  she  want  at  this  time  of  night?" 


126  SALLY    SALT 

From  the  shadow,  fragile,  ethereal  as  a  spirit  of 
the  moonlight,  Hilda  drifted  toward  them. 

"Is  that  you,  Hilda?"  called  Sally. 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Salt,"  was  the  faint,  fluttering  re- 
sponse. 

"What  is  it?  Anything  wrong?"  Sally's  full 
tones  promised  sympathy,  comfort,  immediate  help. 

"No;  oh,  no.  I  just  came  to  ask  about  Harris. 
I,"  she  drew  her  hand  vaguely  across  her  brow,  "felt 
worried  about  him." 

"Harris !"  Sally  was  astonished,  even  faintly  im- 
patient. "D^ar  me,  he's  all  right.  He's  been  in 
bed  for  two  hours,  after  the  happiest  kind  of  a  day." 
Then,  struck  by  the  weary  way  the  girl  leaned 
against  the  post,  drawing  deep,  fluttering  breaths,  as 
if  she  had  run  all  the  way :  "Hilda,  has  anything 
frightened  you?"  Again  sympathy  warmed  her 
voice. 

"No,  Mrs.  Salt."  The  reply  was  so  low  that  it 
was  scarcely  audible.  "I  just  stopped  a  moment.  I 
must  be  getting  back." 

Sally,  bewildered  Sally,  cudgeled  her  brains. 
What  did  this  strange  girl  want  ?  For  what  was  she 
waiting?  "Hilda,"  she  said,  acting  on  what  seemed 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       127 

to  her  to  be  a  sudden  inspiration,  "Hilda,  would  you 
like  to  see  me  alone?" 

But  this  suggestion  served  only  to  increase  Hilda's 
alarm  and  confusion.  "Oh,  no.  Please,  please  do 
not  put  yourself  out  at  all,  Mrs.  Salt.  I  just  ran  in 
a  minute  to  see  how  Harris  was — I  was  passing — 
but  since  he  is  all  right,  I  must  hurry  home.  It  is 
late — "  She  paused  helplessly ;  her  nervous  fingers 
tore  at  a  leaf  she  had  plucked  from  the  vine.  "I — I 
did  get  a  little  frightened  coming  here,"  the  effort 
to  speak  was  manifest,  " — if  Mr.  Streatham — " 

"I  was  just  about  to  insist  on  walking  back  with 
you."  Streatham's  voice  came  pleasantly  out  of  the 
darkness  in  which  he  stood.  "I  shouldn't  think  of 
allowing  you  to  go  home  alone." 

With  a  murmur  of  thanks  almost  inarticulate, 
Hilda  took  one  or  two  hasty  steps  down  the  path 
and  then  wavered.  "Good  night,  Mrs.  Salt." 

"Good  night,"  said  Sally  coldly.  She  sat  for  a 
moment  as  if  petrified,  then,  as  their  footsteps  died 
away,  she  rose  and  went  up-stairs  to  her  room. 
There  she  hesitated  a  moment,  only  a  moment,  for 
Sally's  hesitations  were  brief,  then  crossed  the  floor 
and,  drawing  aside  the  curtain,  glanced  from  the 


128  SALLY    SALT 

window.  Upon  the  road,  fully  revealed  in  the  high, 
white  light,  Hilda  and  Anthony  walked  slowly,  deep 
in  conversation,  and  Sally  noticed  that  Anthony's 
head  was  bent  as  if  to  catch  every  word ;  that  occa- 
sionally he  interrupted  her,  as  if  with  rapid,  excited 
interrogations;  and  that  presently  Hilda  wavered 
and  stumbled,  and  he  threw  a  quick  arm  about  her, 
and  thus  they  stood  for  a  moment,  she  leaning  heav- 
ily upon  him,  he  apparently  soothing  and  encourag- 
ing, until  she  had  gained  sufficient  strength  to 
walk  on. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Anne,  as  she  and  Sally  sat 
alone  at  the  breakfast  table.  "I  did  not  sleep  quite 
as  well  as  usual ;  my  rest  was  twice  broken.  Once 
about  three  o'clock,  when  Mr.  Streatham  led  a  horse 
from  the  stable  and  down  through  the  meadow.  It 
looked  quite  mysterious,  although,  I  dare  say,  was 
really  commonplace  if  one  but  knew  his  motive." 

Sally's  coffee  was  half  way  to  her  mouth.  She 
held  it  suspended  in  air  for  a  second,  and  then  put  it 
down  untasted. 

"Why  don't  you  ask  him  what  the  motive  was  ?" 
she  said. 


STREATHAM    TELLS    A    STORY       129 

Anne  shrugged  her  shoulders.  "Mr.  Streatham 
is  so  very  peculiar,  and  almost  rude  if  one  evinces 
even  a  polite  interest  in  his  affairs,  that  I  think  I 
prefer  to  let  the  matter  remain  a  mystery." 


CHAPTER  IX 
MORE  OF  HILDA'S  SECRET 

SUNDAY  morning,  with  the  unmistakable  Sun- 
day atmosphere.  The  very  landscape  reflects 
the  prevailing  relaxation,  the  sigh  of  relief  that  goes 
up  from  the  world  heart,  that  the  world's  machinery 
temporarily  ceases  and  that,  for  one  day,  at  least, 
the  noisy  whirring  of  the  wheels  is  silenced.  Then 
through  the  calm,  there  steals  the  voice  of  this 
seventh  daughter  who  sits  aloof  from  her  six  hus- 
tling sisters  and  murmurs:  "Come  ye  apart.  Give 
me  this  hour  and  I  will  lead  you  where  peace  floweth 
as  a  river,  vision  for  you  the  city  which  'lieth  four- 
square with  the  twelve  jeweled  and  mighty  gates.' ' 
And  this  especial  Sunday  morning  was  a  type  of 
the  perfect  day,  wide,  white  and  sun-filled,  when 
the  wind  seems  to  sigh  more  softly,  the  bees  to  hum 
more  drowsily  and  the  whole  earth  to  lie  in  a  soft 
axid  happy  dream. 

130 


MORE    OF    HILDA'S    SECRET        131 

Most  of  Sally's  family,  in  fact  all  of  them,  were 
gathered  upon  her  broad,  vine-shaded  porch.  Little 
Harris,  his  recent  nightmare  forgotten,  tumbled 
among  the  cats.  Lucy  Parrish,  in  pale  blue  and  a  froth 
of  white  lace,  was  looking  over  some  papers  and 
magazines  with  Withe rspoon,  who  had  early  made 
his  appearance,  determined  to  lose  no  moments  in 
a  strenuous  campaign  conducted  along  the  lines  of 
conventional  and  calculated  romance.  Mrs.  Nesbit 
was  in  an  attitude  of  excited  expectancy.  She  wore 
a  new,  white-striped  heliotrope  gown  and  a  white 
lace  bonnet  trimmed  with  sprays  of  heliotrope, 
which  Lucy  Parrish  had  recently  purchased  for  her 
in  town  at  Sally's  request.  Her  gloves,  much  too 
long  in  the  fingers,  she  smoothed  nervously  as  she 
sat  carefully  erect,  so  as  not  to  disarrange  one  fold 
of  her  gown;  and  so  keenly  anxious  was  she  that 
the  perfect  equilibrium  of  her  bonnet  should  be 
maintained  that  although  Lucy  Parrish  had  securely 
moored  it  to  her  hair  with  the  necessary  pins,  she 
yet  sat  with  stiffly  poised  head  and  upraised  eye- 
brows, waiting  with  the  fire  of  excitement  burning 
in  her  eyes  for  Uncle  Poodle  to  drive  up  with  the 
surrey  to  convey  her  to  church,  for  Mrs.  Hill,  as 


132  SALLY    SALT 

well  as  others,  had  not  yet  seen  her  mid-summer 
splendors.  The  only  bar  to  her  complete  happiness 
was  the  proximity  of  little  Harris,  who  occasionally 
rolled  too  near  her  feet  to  please  her,  causing  her  to 
shiver  afresh  each  time,  for  she  still  viewed  him 
with  apprehension. 

Streatham,  intuitive  Streatham,  had  been  regard- 
ing her  quizzically  for  some  time  and  now  he  voiced 
his  sentiments  with  apparent  spontaneity,  choosing, 
perhaps,  the  very  phraseology  which  would  most  ap- 
peal to  her. 

"I  think,  Mrs.  Nesbit,"  slowly,  to  give  the  com- 
pliment due  weight,  "that  I  have  never  seen  so  be- 
coming a  bonnet  on  a  lady." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  flushed  with  pride;  unmistakably, 
she  bridled.  "My  folks  always  had  taste,"  she  said. 
"My  son  was  a  poet,  an'  one  of  my  brothers  was  a 
sculptor,  not  professional,  you  know,  but  just  on 
the  side.  He  messed  in  clay  from  morning  till  night 
and  was  never  so  happy  as  when  doing  it,  but," 
shaking  her  head  regretfully,  "he  didn't  get  the 
proper  encouragement  from  his  wife.  She  was  a 
Hallet,  you  know,  and  they  was  all  hard-working 
folks  with  no  appreciation.  Well,  once  he  made  a 


MORE    OF    HILDA'S    SECRET        133 

bust  of  her.  It  looked  so  much  like  her  as  never 
was,  too,  and  he  kept  it  for  a  surprise  for  her  birth- 
day. You  see,  he  was  out  of  a  job  at  the  time,  and 
he  just  didn't  see  his  way  to  get  another;  so  he  took 
the  time  she  thought  he  was  looking  around  for 
work  and  put  it  in  on  the  bust,  working  on  it  on  the 
sly  out  in  the  barn.  Then,  on  her  birthday,  he  had 
a  unveiling  of  it.  All  the  relatives  was  there,  and 
my  son  Clarence  read  a  poem,  and  then  my  brother, 
he  took  the  mosquito  netting  off  the  bust,  and  when 
she  saw  it,  what  do  you  think  his  wife  did?  Oh, 
that  was  about  the  worst  thing  that  ever  happened," 
she  shivered  slightly  at  the  remembrance,  "in  our 
family.  Why,"  lowering  her  voice,  "she  looked  at 
it  a  minute  and  never  said  a  word,  and  then  she 
walked  out  of  the  room  and  come  back  with  a 
hatchet,  and  still  without  one  word,  she  smashed  the 
whole  thing  to  bits." 

"Interesting!"  murmured  Streatham  thought- 
fully, "a  survival  of  the  iconoclastic  spirit  roused  to 
action  by  the  personal  impulse." 

"I  guess  so,"  Mrs.  Nesbit  agreed  vaguely,  "must 
have  been  something  like  that." 

"Anthony,  behave,"  murmured  Sally  under  her 


134  SALLY    SALT 

breath,  "I  hate  you  when  you  play  with  people.  She 
thinks  you're  sympathizing  with  her." 

"So  I  am,"  averred  Streatham,  turning  to  this 
white-clad,  red-haired,  brown-skinned  Sally,  and 
speaking  in  a  tone  that  Mrs.  Nesbit  could  not  hear, 
"but  you  only  see  one  side  of  the  question,  the 
woman  side.  To  her,  the  main  facts  of  life  are 
children  and  she  seeks  proper  shelter  for  them,  food 
for  them,  clothes  for  them  and  a  decent  appearance 
before  the  world.  The  husband  is  the  mill  which 
must  grind  out  the  grist  whether  there  is  any  water 
to  turn  the  wheel  or  not.  That  is  his  sole  business 
in  life.  But  think  of  him,  poor  ineffective  dreamer, 
haunted  by  the  vision,  chained  to  the  sordidly  mun- 
dane, dismayed  and  overwhelmed  by  the  respon- 
sibilities he  has  acquired.  An  equal  tragedy  for 
both  man  and  woman,  I  admit;  but  for  me,  the 
weight  of  pathos  tips  the  scales  on  his  side.  She 
had,  at  least,  the  consciousness  of  her  own  strength 
of  purpose,  and  a  sure  aim  with  the  hatchet  to  con- 
sole her." 

"What  a  pity  that  she  entirely  failed  to  grasp  the 
art  impulse  which  he  struggled  to  express,"  re- 
marked Anne  as  she  rose  from  her  chair  and  entered 


MORE   OF    HILDA'S    SECRET       135 

the  house.  It  would  be  impossible  to  contemplate 
Anne  "saying"  things;  she  invariably  "remarked," 
and  she  never  got  beyond  the  zone  of  commonplaces 
and  platitudes.  Streatham  always  maintained  that 
this  was  the  curse  the  wicked  fairy  had  bestowed 
upon  her  in  the  cradle,  and  her  manner  of  stating 
the  obvious,  didactically  excluding  all  other  con- 
clusions, made  him  long  to  smite  her.  He  frequently 
confided  to  Sally  that  he  never  could  hear  Anne 
"converse"  without  feeling  an  itching  in  his  right 
palm.  He  voiced  this  same  impulse  now. 

"Oh,  she's  not  bad,"  returned  Sally,  whose  nerves 
were  not  on  the  surface,  "and  she's  rather  pretty, 
too." 

"Rather  pretty !"  Anthony  sulked  irritably.  "Oh, 
you  women!  If  one  of  you  has  what  you  call  'a 
figure,'  or  fine  hair,  or  a  smooth  skin,  you  pronounce 
her  beautiful.  You  see  nothing  but  surfaces; 
whereas,  real  beauty  lies  in  unexpected  intimations 
and  revelations;  a  turn  of  the  head,  a  momentary 
glance,  a  smile,  expressing  itself  eternally  in  its  sug- 
gestion of  lovely  and  mysterious  things.  And 
Anne,"  with  increasing  irritation,  "Anne  suggests 
nothing  so  much  as  a  plain  brick  wall.  Of  course," 


136  SALLY    SALT 

as  if  conceding  a  point,  "all  beauty  does  not  lie  in 
half-revelations.  There's  your  kind,  for  instance — 
w — why,  why,  Sally,"  edging  nearer  to  her  until  his 
sun-bleached  hair  almost  lay  against  her  knee,  and 
speaking  in  his  ardent,  stammering  whisper,  "in 
that  severe,  white,  Sunday  morning  frock  and  those 
smart,  buckled  shoes  which  Lucy  Parrish  bought 
for  you,"  shrewdly,  "or  you'd  never  have  them, 
you're  as  patently  beautiful  as  the  sunshine.  You're 
like  a  whole  meadow  of  buttercups.  But  I — I  don't 
love  you  when  you  tell  me  that  Anne's  pretty.  It — 
it's  feminine  of  you,  almost  c — catty." 

He  was  as  irritably,  perversely  in  earnest  as  if 
some  vital  question  were  at  stake,  and  he  sulked  and 
glowered  distastefully  at  Anne,  who  had  returned 
and  now  sat  perfectly  erect  and  calm  in  her  high- 
backed  chair  reading  what  he  felt  convinced  was 
some  instructive  and  profitable  work. 

But  in  spite  of  his  animadversions  and  to  do  her 
full  justice,  Anne  was  not  lacking  in  a  certain  sort 
of  good  looks,  although  it  must  be  said  that  she 
prided  herself  less  on  being  handsome  than  in  mani- 
festing a  robust  wholesomeness.  "Wholesome," 
and  "robust"  were  two  of  the  most  hard-worked 


MORE   OF    HILDA'S    SECRET        137 

words  in  Anne's  vocabulary  and  the  two  which, 
perhaps  with  the  exception  of  "uplift,"  caused 
Streatham  the  most  acute  anguish. 

But  to  leave  the  mental  Anne  for  the  moment  and 
regard  the  physical — she  was  a  rather  tall,  squarely 
built  young  woman,  clumsily  built  on  the  whole, 
especially  about  the  wrists  and  ankles.  Her  scant, 
dark  hair  was  drawn  plainly  back  from  her  brow, 
and  it  grew  in  such  a  fashion  that  it  parted  here  and 
there,  showing  paths  of  very  white  scalp  in  strong 
contrast  to  her  firm,  red  cheeks.  A  naturally  inquir- 
ing expression  was  accentuated  by  eye-glasses,  and 
her  mouth  was  small  and  tight,  with  a  pointed  chin. 
Essentially  methodical,  she  had  arranged  for  every 
day  a  schedule  of  her  hours  from  which  she  never 
on  any  occasion  permitted  herself  the  slightest  de- 
viation; thus,  according  to  Streatham,  successfully 
reducing  life  to  clockwork. 

"She's  all  tangled  up  in  the  limitations  of  time 
and  space,"  he  complained ;  "she's  made  of  exist- 
ence such  a  dead,  mechanical  thing  that  she's  in  a 
network  of  hours  and  minutes." 

He  was  whispering  all  this  to  Sally,  his  stammer 
increased  by  irritation. 


138  SALLY    SALT 

"Oh,  leave  poor  Anne  alone,"  she  cried  with  im- 
patient good  nature,  "and  stop  disturbing  me."  For 
Sally  was  occupied  in  opening  and  glancing  over  a 
batch  of  letters  which  had  arrived  the  evening  be- 
fore and  which  she  had  reserved  for  her  Sunday 
morning's  leisure.  Most  of  them  were  from  per- 
sons desirous  of  spending  the  summer  with  her;  but 
this  was  a  privilege  Sally  accorded  to  few. 

"  'A  lady  who  wants  to  rest  and  do  her  summer 
reading.' '  She  leisurely  scanned  the  page  before 
her.  "What's  the  difference  between  summer  and 
winter  reading,  Anthony?  Oh,  I  see  her,"  without 
waiting  for  his  explanation,  "with  a  whole  row  of 
imposing-looking  books  that  she'll  never  peep  into; 
and  when  she's  ready  to  leave  and  take  up  her  win- 
ter reading,  whatever  that  may  be,  she'll  present  me 
with  one  of  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward's  novels.  I  won- 
der why,  when  the  cultured  ladies  want  to  get  the 
heathen  interested  in  intellectual  things,  they  always 
begin  with  Mrs.  Humphrey  Ward  ? 

"Here's  another,"  she  had  run  over  a  half  a 
dozen  in  the  meantime.  "H'm,  h'm,  'My  doctor 
considers  me  in  a  serious  condition  and  wishes  me 
to  go  to  some  quiet  place  where  I  may  build  up — 


139 

complete  nervous  breakdown !'  Oh,  Lord !"  groaned 
Sally,  "she  can't  come  here.  I  know  what  we 
would  have  all  summer — all  the  great  specialists  in 
the  country  consulted;  but  none  of  them  could  tell 
what  ailed  her,  and  one  of  them  thought  her  case  so 
remarkable  that  he  wrote  it  up  for  the  medical 
journals  and  it  was  copied  all  over  the  world,  and 
then,  when  she  finally  and  inevitably  ended  in  the 
hospital,  the  doctors  and  nurses  united  in  saying  that 
she  was  the  bravest  woman  they  ever  did  see.  And, 
of  course,  since  then,  she  is  not  able  to  bear  the 
least  excitement  or  exertion,"  freely  translating  into 
her  own  words  as  she  went  along.  "I  know,  I  know, 
same  old  thing.  About  all  she  can  do  is  to  play 
bridge  all  day  and  all  night." 

Just  as  Anne  was  turning  surprised  eyes  on  Sally, 
preparatory  to  lifting  an  admonishing  voice,  Uncle 
Poodle  drove  up  to  the  gate,  severe,  solemn,  raven- 
like  in  black,  Sunday  garments,  while  beside  him 
languished  and  pouted  and  dimpled  and  sparkled 
Wilmerdine,  who  had  announced  her  audacious  and 
unprecedented  intention  of  going  to  church.  Uncle 
Poodle,  without  even  a  glance  at  the  starched,  pink 
lawn  prettiness  at  his  side,  handed  her  the  lines  im- 


HO  SALLY    SALT 

personally,  while  he  rheumatically  descended  to  as- 
sist Mrs.  Nesbit  into  the  place  of  state  on  the  back 
seat  of  the  conveyance,  as  apparently  oblivious  of 
Wilmerdine's  coquetries  as  a  rock  in  the  ocean  to 
the  froth  foaming  about  it. 

Mrs.  Nesbit  in  a  fresh  flutter  of  excitement  pre- 
pared to  meet  a  congregation  of  collective  eyes, 
resolving  itself  finally  into  the  one,  severe,  disap- 
proving yet  withal  grudgingly  admiring  gaze  of 
Mrs.  Hill. 

"You're  sure,  Mis'  Salt,"  she  pleaded  tremu- 
lously, just  as  she  stepped  into  the  carriage,  "you're 
sure  that  it  all  ain't  too  frivolous?" 

Reassured,  her  wavering  confidence  restored  by 
Sally's  positive  opinion  and  Streatham's  fluently 
expressed  compliments,  she  drove  off,  fortified,  for 
a  time  at  least,  against  even  the  cold  scrutiny  of  the 
individual  Hill  eye. 

For  a  season  after  her  departure,  there  was  si- 
lence on  the  porch,  broken  only  by  the  low  murmur 
of  the  voices  of  Lucy  Parrish  and  Witherspoon 
from  their  vine-shaded  retreat,  until  Harris  Hurd 
sat  upright,  pushed  aside  his  "Sunday  supplements" 
and  three  or  four  sprawling  cats,  and  jumping  to 


MORE   OF    HILDA'S    SECRET        141 

his  feet  with  a  shout  of  joy,  ran  down  the  path  to 
meet  Hilda,  who  had  just  opened  the  gate;  and 
Sally,  looking  up  to  see  the  girl  advancing  through 
the  sunlight  and  the  flowers,  was  aware  of  a  curious 
sense  of  waiting;  a  submerged  but  struggling  con- 
sciousness seemed  to  warn  her  that  a  moment  of 
destiny  was  at  hand;  one  of  those  strange,  fateful 
seasons  when  having  eyes  we  see,  and  in  that  brief 
flash  of  clearer  vision  we  are  permitted  to  look  upon 
the  web  weaving ;  to  see,  but  never,  despite  the  pas- 
sion of  desire  that  may  shake  our  hearts,  to  lay 
hands  upon  the  loom. 

And  as  Hilda  stood  before  Sally  with  her  little 
brother's  arms  about  her  waist,  his  dark  head 
pressed  against  her  shoulder,  the  sunlight  shim- 
mered a  moment  in  Sally's  eyes,  and  not  Hilda,  but 
Atropos,  moved  through  the  sun-mist,  herself  fate 
impelled  and  ready  with  those  inevitable  scissors  to 
cut  the  golden  thread  of  life  and  love. 

"Good  morning,  Hilda,"  her  own  voice,  its  usual, 
every-day  cheerfulness  unmarred,  rang  oddly  in  her 
ear.  "Anything  particular  this  morning,  or  did  you 
just  want  to  see  Harris?" 

"Just  to  see  Harris,  Mrs.  Salt."     Her  lids  fell, 


142  SALLY    SALT 

and  Sally  noticed  the  up-sweep  of  the  dark  brown 
lashes  on  her  tea-rose  cheek.  "And — and  mother 
wishes  to  know  if  you  will  send  him  home  to-mor- 
row, she  needs  him." 

"Certainly."  But  at  this  undesired  concession 
Harris  turned  from  Hilda  to  throw  himself  on 
Sally's  lap  and  beg  for  a  longer  stay. 

Sally  laughed,  delighted  with  his  display  of  af- 
fection and  began  playfully  to  argue  with  him,  re- 
warding  his  cajoleries  with  promises  of  frequent 
repetitions  of  his  visit;  and  still  laughing,  suddenly 
lifted  humorous  eyes  from  him  to  see  that  Hilda's 
glance  hung  upon  Streatham,  pale,  insistent,  implor- 
ing, her  lips,  too,  moved  slightly,  almost  imper- 
ceptibly, in  some  significant  phrase  meant  for  him 
alone. 

For  Sally,  there  was  a  moment  of  sudden,  deep 
shock,  as  if  every  drop  of  blood  in  her  body  receded 
upon  her  heart.  She  caught  her  breath  quickly  and 
looked  at  Streatham;  but  in  the  act  of  lighting  a 
cigarette,  he  returned  the  surprised,  demanding,  sus- 
spicious  question  of  her  gaze  with  an  expression  so 
inscrutable  and  unconscious,  so  absolutely  and  ad- 


MORE   OF   HILDA'S    SECRET       143 

mirably  innocent,  that  the  emotion  she  suffered  was 
increased  by  a  violent  flare  of  resentment. 

So  Sally,  enmeshed  in  bewilderment,  was  merely 
thrown  back  on  herself.  "What  was  the  meaning 
of  this  newly  discovered  matter;  these  evidences  of 
a  secret  understanding  existing  between  Anthony 
and  Hilda  Hurd?  Why,  she  had  supposed  that  he 
barely  knew  the  girl.  Were  they,  with  their  glances 
and  their  unintelligible,  whispered  phrases,  all  their 
mysteries,  but  gathering  up  the  threads  of  previous 
summers?  And  how  should  Streatham  dare  insult 
her  intelligence  with  his  innocent  assumptions  ?  To 
fancy  he  could  deceive  her  by  turning  a  mask-face 
of  mildly  inquiring  eyes  and  unreadable  mouth  to 
her  suspicions?  And  Hilda!  she  looked  at  the  girl, 
stooping  now  above  her  brother,  cheek  pressed 
against  his,  whispering  endearments  in  his  ear. 

And  Hilda  lifted  her  head  and  met  the  full  impact 
of  that  glance.  It  struck  her  like  a  blow.  Her 
color  wavered  and  faded,  her  eyes  fell,  the  corners 
of  her  mouth  dropped  in  a  pitiful  quiver,  "I  must 
go,"  her  confusion  overwhelming  her,  "I  must  go." 

"Hilda  Hurd  might  be  almost  pretty,  if  she  were 


144  SALLY    SALT 

not  so — so  delicate  in  appearance,"  announced  Anne, 
looking  up  from  her  book  and  watching  the  girl, 
who,  with  drooping  head,  had  turned  into  the  road- 
way. 

"Pretty!"  Streatham  ceased  to  blow  wreaths  of 
smoke  into  the  heart  of  a  great,  blue  clematis  flower 
and  lazily  turned  his  head.  "Did  you  say — pretty?" 

"Why  ?  Do  you  not  think  so  ?"  Anne  was  alert 
in  a  minute,  ready  to  discuss  the  question  in  detail. 

He  did  not  answer,  perhaps  from  sheer  perversity 
and  because  he  knew  that  nothing  would  annoy  her 
so  much,  or  perhaps  because  he  did  not  hear  her. 
His  head  was  lifted,  his  eyes,  unseeing,  were  fast- 
ened on  the  blue  hills ;  but  again  he  seemed  to  listen, 
to  concentrate  every  faculty  in  listening  as  if  once 
more  there  had  fallen  across  his  spirit  that  far  call 
from  the  sunset,  the  crystal-clear,  soaring,  unearthly 
sweet  sound  of  Hilda's  singing. 


CHAPTER  X 

HIRED   MAN   OR   HUSBAND? 

THE  afternoon  was  hot  and  humid.  The  sun 
shone  through  a  watery  mist  and  a  hot,  im- 
palpable steam  seemed  to  rise  from  the  baked  earth. 
Streatham  was  standing  at  the  gate,  looking  up  and 
down  the  highway,  when  Sally  rode  up.  "Come  on," 
she  cried  at  the  sight  of  him,  "saddle  one  of  the 
horses.  I've  got  to  ride  over  to  West's  for  some 
more  hands.  Hurry." 

Sally  both  rode  and  drove  good  horses.  She  was 
mounted  now  on  a  slender  thoroughbred,  with  rest- 
less eyes  and  nervous  ears,  and  it  fretted  and 
pranced  about  like  a  ballet  dancer.  She  wore  a 
short  riding-skirt,  a  blouse  open  at  the  throat,  and, 
as  usual,  she  was  hatless.  Her  red  hair  curled  in 
tendrils  about  the  nape  of  her  neck,  a  neck  like  a 
smooth,  brown  column,  polished  as  marble,  with 
tiny  beads  of  sweat  where  the  hair  began  to  grow 
and  in  the  faint  hollow  at  the  base  of  the  throat. 


i46  SALLY    SALT 

"Aren't  you  rather  reckless,  starting  out  now, 
Sally?"  asked  Streatham,  as  he  cantered  around 
from  the  stable,  after  saddling  a  horse.  "Look  at 
the  thunder-caps  on  the  horizon."  He  pointed  to 
white,  rolling  tips  of  cloud  on  the  sullen  gray  bank 
low  on  the  sky  and  black  in  the  sunlight. 

"I  know,"  said  Sally,  squinting  her  eye  at  the 
piled-up  masses  of  storm,  "I  know,  but  I  think  we 
can  make  it.  I've  just  got  to  have  some  more  men, 
and  I  don't  believe  it's  going  to  storm  before  we  can 
get  back." 

"Optimistic  Sally !  You  may  be  right.  I'm  will- 
ing to  sacrifice  conviction  to  courtesy  and  admit  that 
you  probably  are,  but,  nevertheless,  I'm  also  willing 
to  wager  that  we  get  a  very  thorough  drenching." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  contended  Sally  obstinately, 
"and  anyway,  we're  on  two  pretty  fast  horses,  but 
— yielding  to  your  opinion,  Anthony,  we'll  make  a 
sprint  for  it." 

The  turnpike  stretched  its  burning  length,  white 
and  interminable  before  them;  the  golden  billows  of 
wheat  alternated  with  far-stretching  rows  of  young, 
half-grown  corn,  a  sharp,  metallic  green  luster  on 
their  broad  blades;  these,  in  turn,  were  broken  by 


HIRED   MAN   OR    HUSBAND?       147 

patches  of  woodland  which  afforded  a  grateful  if 
momentary  shade;  but  so  rapidly  did  Sally  and 
Streatham  ride  that  the  landscape  appeared  a  swiftly 
shifting  panorama  of  blended  greens  and  yellows 
under  a  sullen  sky. 

Finally,  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  they  turned  their 
horses'  heads  down  a  shaded  lane  which  led  them 
eventually  into  the  river  road,  a  rough  wagon  trail, 
winding  through  the  trees.  The  clouds  were  rolling 
up  ever  more  rapidly  and  the  sunshine  was  now 
quite  obscured.  The  woods  were  dim  in  the  strange 
leaf-dusk,  green  and  solemn,  and  the  ceaseless  whis- 
perings of  the  forest  had  fallen  to  an  uncanny  quiet. 

In  spite  of  these  presages  of  storm,  Sally  and 
Streatham  had  to  let  the  tired  horses  walk  and  cool 
off  a  bit,  for  the  road  was  rocky  and  uncertain, 
winding  unevenly  through  a  thick  growth  of  small- 
leaved  elms,  genial,  graceful  maples,  and  cotton- 
woods  with  their  huge,  spotted,  smooth  trunks ;  and 
the  path  was  further  impeded  by  rank,  lush  weeds, 
growing  as  high  as  the  saddle  girths  and  starred 
with  tiny,  jewel-like  flowers.  The  air  became  every 
moment  more  still  in  the  mystical,  almost  sentient 
silencing  and  deadening  of  every  sound  to  the  storm- 


148  SALLY    SALT 

hush,  as  if  the  earth  were  consciously  obeying  some 
high  command  to  listen  and  wait;  only  the  river 
was  exempt,  for  its  rippling,  eternal  monotone,  its 
lulling,  unruffled,  silver  singing  grew  louder  and 
louder,  ever  increasing  in  volume.  At  last,  to 
Streatham's  relief — Sally,  if  she  felt  any,  made  no 
sign — they  reached  their  destination. 

Hidden  deep  in  the  woods  was  a  board  shack 
roughly  put  together  and  containing  two  or  three 
rooms,  with  a  small,  illy-contrived  window  or  so, 
and  a  little  to  the  rear,  an  outside  pantry,  containing 
cooking  utensils  and  provisions ;  but  no  one  was  in 
sight,  and  although  a  thin  spiral  of  smoke  curled 
from  the  rude  chimney  of  the  cabin,  there  was  no 
further  sign  of  occupancy. 

Sally  rode  up  to  one  of  the  windows  and  peered 
in  and  then  shook  her  head.  "No  one  here,"  she 
murmured.  For  a  moment  her  mouth  drooped  per- 
plexedly, and  then  she  put  her  fingers  to  her  mouth 
and  blew  a  long  whistle.  It  was  answered  immedi- 
ately from  the  rocks  below,  and  presently  a  man,  a 
rough  enough  looking  fellow,  stumbled  up  the  cliffs 
and  announced  that  he  and  his  companions  were 
fishing  on  the  rocks  below.  He  evidently  acted  as 


HIRED    MAN    OR    HUSBAND?       149 

spokesman  for  the  rest,  for  after  a  few  moments' 
conversation,  Sally  engaged  four  of  them,  striking 
an  apparently  satisfactory  bargain,  but  concluding 
negotiations  too  late  to  avoid  the  storm,  which  was 
already  breaking. 

She  refused  to  listen  to  either  the  men  or  Streat- 
ham,  who  urged  her  to  wait,  but  insisted  with  her 
usual  confidence  and  impetuosity  that  they  would  do 
better  to  reach  the  open  than  in  remaining  in  the 
woods.  Scarcely  had  they  turned  their  horses' 
heads,  however,  before  they  were,  as  she  expressed 
it,  in  the  thick  of  it.  For  a  few  moments  there  was 
the  constant  jagged  flare  of  lightning  and  the  heavy, 
accompanying  boom  of  thunder  and  her  horse  be- 
came almost  unmanageable,  leaping  and  rearing  in  a 
nervous  panic. 

"Hurry,  hurry !"  cried  Streatham,  trying  to  raise 
his  voice  so  that  he  could  be  heard,  "we  must  get 
out  of  these  woods  and  into  the  open.  Use  the 
whip,  Sally," 

She  nodded.  Her  eyes  were  brilliant  with  excite- 
ment, the  color  was  deep  in  her  cheeks.  They  raced 
on,  the  poor  beasts  stumbling,  plunging,  almost  mad 
with  fright,  until,  at  last,  they  gained  the  clearing 


150  SALLY    SALT 

again  and  turned  into  a  broad,  unfenced  meadow. 
Here  the  horses  stood  trembling,  taking  the  long 
slant  of  the  rain.  The  thunder  still  rolled  and  rum- 
bled about  them,  but  the  lightning  was  not  so  con- 
tinuous, and  Sally  lifted  her  face  to  the  heavy  patter 
of  the  shower  and  laughed  aloud  at  the  sullen  gray 
sky. 

"Oh,  I  love  it!"  she  cried.  "God  gets  tired  of 
these  simpering  days  of  sunshine  and  He  gives  us 
storms;  rain  to  wash  the  dust  off  the  world,  and 
wind  to  lift  up  our  souls  and  blow  the  cobwebs  out 
of  our  brains.  Oh,  I  love  it !  I  love  to  live !" 

There  was  the  deep  glint  of  a  smile  in  Streatham's 
eyes  as  he  looked  at  her.  Her  restless,  tormented 
horse  was  standing  quietly  enough  now,  like  a 
brown  statue,  with  head  sunk  almost  to  knees,  and 
Sally  sat  laughing,  the  wet  coils  of  her  hair  flattened 
to  her  head,  her  water-soaked  garments  clinging 
about  her,  showing  every  strong,  symmetrical  curve 
and  muscle,  the  rain  following  the  oval  of  her  cheek 
and  running  in  tiny  rivulets  down  her  neck. 

"You've  never  really  lived,  S — Sally,  because 
you've  never  really  loved.  You  d — don't  know  any- 
thing about  it,"  Streatham  answered. 


HIRED   MAN    OR    HUSBAND?       151 

The  wonder  was  now  that  the  color  in  Sally's 
cheeks  did  not  dry  the  raindrops  on  them. 

"I !"  with  a  fine,  scornful  carelessness,  "I've  never 
really  lived!  Why,  I  live  every  day  to  the  tips  of 
my  fingers,  and  I  love  everything  that  lives." 

"Even  me,  Sally,"  whispered  Streatham,  "even 
me?" 

Her  lips  curled,  her  full  mouth  expressing  such 
generous  scorn,  so  delightfully  exaggerated,  that 
Anthony  laughed  aloud. 

"You!  I  wish  you  could  see  yourself,  with  all 
that  straw-colored  thatch  plastered  into  your  eyes. 
You're  a  fine  sight !  Come,  the  rain  is  over,  we  can 
go  home.  Come !"  She  leaned  over  and  patted  her 
horse's  neck,  and  they  turned  out  into  the  road, 
hard  and  beaten  now,  all  its  pillars  of  cloud  laid, 
and  unsuspected,  rocky  little  gullies  revealed.  The 
flat  surface  of  the  sky  was  broken  and  opaline  with 
color,  and  the  gray,  which  a  few  moments  before 
had  appeared  so  solid  and  even,  was  only  a  tattered 
and  trailing  curtain,  inadequately  concealing  the 
colors  of  the  sunset  courts.  The  wet  leaves  twinkled 
with  raindrops,  and  the  corn  blades  gleamed  a 
brighter  and  harder  green  than  ever. 


152  SALLY    SALT 

"Sally,"  asked  Streatham,  without  any  particular 
relevance — they  rode  slowly  now — "do  you  know 
that  man  is  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  that  he  clings  pas- 
sionately to  his  illusions;  in  other  words,  he  blows 
soap-bubbles  from  the  cradle  to  the  grave,  and  then, 
childlike,  tries  to  clutch  them ;  and  when  one  breaks, 
when  they  all  break,  he  keeps  on  blowing  in  the 
hope,  nay,  in  the  belief  that  some  day  he  will 
achieve  one  glorious,  iridescent  bubble,  finger-proof, 
rain-proof,  fragile  as  mist,  indestructible  as  asbes- 
tos; and  he  promises  himself  that  he  will  tie  a  string 
to  it  carefully,  fastening  the  other  end  about  his 
heart,  and  preserve  it  for  ever,  an  unfailing  joy. 
Now,  one  of  the  greatest  of  his  illusions  is  woman, 
his  ideal  of  her,  that  fugitive  but  ever  present  illu- 
sion, the  lady  of  the  dreams  of  men." 

"Woman  has  some  illusions,  too,"  remarked  Sally 
dryly. 

"Assuredly  she  has,"  he  readily  agreed.  "One  of 
them  is  that  she  thinks  she  has  been  badly  treated 
for  centuries.  It  is  the  pathetic  pose  of  the  cat  with 
her  paw  on  the  mouse,  who  tells  her  friends  that 
they  can  not  conceive  the  sufferings  she  has  endured 
from  that  wretched,  squeaking  animal." 


HIRED    MAN    OR    HUSBAND?       153 

Sally  laughed  in  spite  of  herself.  "Anthony,  you 
just  love  to  philosophize  about  women.  That  shows 
how  much  your  mind  runs  on  them." 

"Of  course,"  Streatham  admitted  coolly.  "Wom- 
an is  the  most  interesting  creature  in  the  world. 
She  affects  your  imagination  and  haunts  your  peace- 
ful hours.  One  moment  she  is  a  clinging  darling 
who  looks  to  you  for  strength,  sanity  and  judgment. 
She  trespasses  on  your  time  and  takes  possession  of 
your  dreams.  But  you — that's  me,  Sally — have  a 
man's  work  to  do  in  the  world,  so  you  sternly  banish 
her  and  retire  to  the  realms  of  pure  reason.  But 
does  she  leave  you  alone?  Never.  She  obtrudes 
herself  there  and  poses  as  a  psychological  puzzle,  a 
being  in  the  throes  of  evolution,  who  fascinates  you 
with  the  problem  of  the  free  woman." 

"Free!  Freedom!"  Sally  drew  a  long  breath. 
"That's  the  best  thing  in  life,  Anthony.  We  didn't 
mention  it  when  we  were  speaking  of  life  the  other 
night." 

"Oh,  life!    The  jade!"     He  brought  his  crop 
down  smartly  on  his  leg,  a  shadow  falling  across  his 
eyes.     "How  she  mocks  you !" 
•    "Oh,  don't  begin  that !"     There  was  a  sharp  note 


154  SALLY    SALT 

of  impatience  in  Sally's  Voice.  "Look !  We  are  at 
home.  I'll  race  you  to  the  stable." 

Streatham  won  by  a  neck  in  the  brief  dash  before 
them,  and,  after  leaving  the  horses  in  the  care  of 
one  of  the  men,  they  sauntered  through  the  garden 
on  their  way  to  the  house.  But  although  they  had 
both  been  soaked  to  the  skin,  and  even  to  the  casual 
observer  were  in  sad  need  of  a  change  of  clothing, 
they  came  but  slowly  up  the  wet  paths. 

The  last  long  arrows  of  sunset  were  splintering 
against  the  trees ;  every  blade  of  grass  offered  dia- 
monds to  any  wandering,  jewel-loving  fairy.  The 
flowers  sprang  more  radiantly  from  the  invigorated 
earth,  with  the  clean,  rejoicing  freshness  they  always 
wear  after  a  rain,  and  the  mingled  fragrances  of 
Sally's  garden  permeated  the  damp  air  with  more 
individual  and  penetrating  odors.  The  birds  twit- 
tered and  fluttered  on  the  boughs,  and  now  and 
again  the  drops  from  the  trees  were  shaken  heavily 
on  Streatham's  head ;  but  this  sun-splashed  interlude 
of  rejoicing  was  brief ;  the  somber  rain  curtain,  re- 
paired, renovated  and  whole,  was  again  veiling  the 
splendors  of  the  sun-courts,  and  the  gray  lady  of 
twilight  was  slipping  over  the  fields  and  through  the 


HIRED    MAN    OR    HUSBAND?       155 

trees  toward  them,  bringing  in  both  hands  moods  of 
delicate  contemplation,  of  communion  and  revela- 
tion, that  the  heart  would  never  trust  the  lips  to 
voice  in  the  less  intimate  glow  of  noonday. 

Streatham's  hand  had  involuntarily  sought  Sally's 
and  their  steps  moved  in  slow  unison. 

"Anthony,"  she  shifted  her  eyes  squarely  to  his, 
"do  you  care  to  tell  me  why  Hilda  Kurd  came  here 
to  see  you,  night  before  last  ?" 

Streatham  looked  steadily  at  the  last  bars  of  gold 
in  the  sky,  frowning  a  bit  meanwhile.  Then  he 
shook  his  head  with  a  whimsical  twist  of  his  mouth. 
"No,"  he  said,  "I  don't  believe  I  do."  He  tightened 
his  fingers  around  Sally's  as  he  spoke,  frustrating 
their  evident  withdrawal. 

"And  I  suppose  you  don't  care  to  tell  me,"  she 
went  on,  "why,  at  three  o'clock  the  same  night,  you 
went  down  to  the  stable,  saddled  my  mare,  Berta, 
without  so  much  as  a  'by  your  leave'  to  me,  led  her 
down  through  the  meadow  as  stealthily  as  if  you 
were  a  smuggler,  and  never  showed  up  again  until 
six  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  you  brought  her 
in  blown  and  in  a  lather  of  sweat  ?" 

"Dear  me,  Sherlock!     How  did  you  discover  all 


156  SALLY    SALT 

this?"  Streatham  spoke  in  an  affected  surprise 
which  but  half -concealed  his  real  amazement.  "No," 
looking  up  at  her  like  a  naughty  school-boy,  "I'm 
afraid  I  shall  have  to  keep  the  guilty  secret.  Did  I 
ever  happen  to  tell  you,  Sally,  how  my  uncle  Peter- 
son happened  to  leave  my  father  a  thousand  dollars 
in  his  will?  No?  'Oh,  you  must  know  that! 
Funny  thing !' '  He  mimicked  her  so  audaciously 
to  her  face  that,  unwillingly,  she  paid  him  the  trib- 
ute of  involuntary  if  slightly  discomfited  laughter. 

"My  father,"  Streatham  continued,  "when  he  was 
a  young  man,  went  to  visit  my  uncle  Peterson.  The 
first  evening  of  his  arrival  a  number  of  my  uncle's 
cronies  happened  in,  according  to  their  custom,  and 
sat  about  the  great  wood  fire,  smoking  their  pipes  and 
sipping  their  hot  toddy,  and  as  argument  and  discus- 
sion waxed  warm  each  man  emphasized  his  state- 
ments by  seizing  the  poker  and  vigorously  poking 
and  prodding  the  fire.  My  father  sat,  during  the 
evening,  an  almost  silent  listener,  vastly  delighted 
with  the  charm  of  their  conversation  and  the  range 
of  their  information,  but,  with  the  modesty  proper 
in  so  young  a  man,  taking  small  part  in  the  discus- 


HIRED   MAN   OR   HUSBAND?       157 

sion.  At  last  they  all  departed,  and  my  uncle  Peter- 
son signified  his  intention  of  going  to  bed,  making 
various  preparations  for  the  night,  such  as  winding 
the  clock,  putting  out  the  cat  and  banking  the  em- 
bers. 

"  'Good  night,  sir,'  said  my  father,  taking  note  of 
these  signs.  'I  have  greatly  enjoyed  this  evening, 
and  trust  that  I  shall  greatly  profit  by  it.' 

"  'You  will,  sir,'  said  my  uncle,  with  a  meaning 
my  father  did  not  then  understand.  Then  he  seized 
the  young  man's  hand  and  shook  it,  adding  impul- 
sively: 'I  thank  thee,  friend,  that  thou  hast  not 
once  offered  to  poke  my  fire.'  And,  mark  this  well, 
Sally,  when  he  died,  several  years  later,  he  left  my 
father  a  thousand  dollars." 

Sally  tossed  her  head,  her  brow  haughty,  her  color 
warm.  "I  don't  want  to  poke  your  fire.  I've 
enough  fire  of  my  own  to  poke  to  supply  me  with  an 
interest  in  life.  Really,  Anthony,  I  can  mind  my 
own  business,  if  it's  strictly  necessary." 

"Sally,  darling!  loveliest,  most  wonderful,  ador- 
able Sally !"  The  gray  curtain  had  completely  fallen 
now,  and  his  arms  were  about  her.  "Kiss  me, 


158  SALLY    SALT 

Sally.  Oh,  Sally!"  as  she  resolutely  averted  her 
head,  "h-how  can  you  be  so  unkind  ?" 

And  then  Sally  of  the  melting  heart  made  one  of 
her  impulsive  turns  and  cast  her  arms  about  his 
neck  and  locked  her  fingers  together,  and,  holding 
him  in  that  circle  of  love,  answered  him  from  her 
soul — the  eternal  feminine  in  her  striving  to  bind 
and  to  hold. 

"Then  you  will  never  go  away  any  more?  You 
won't  be  starting  as  soon  as  the  corn  cutting  is  over? 
Oh,  for  two  years,  how  I  have  hated  to  see  you  go ! 
Now  you'll  stay." 

"Stay !"  He  drew  back  a  little  and  looked  at  her 
strangely.  "I  can't  stay ;  I've  got  to  go  on." 

It  was  her  turn  now  to  draw  back  from  him. 
"Why?"  she  asked,  and  he  smiled  at  the  familiar, 
imperative,  incisive  note  of  her  voice. 

"I  couldn't  live  off  you,"  he  said  bruskly.  "Sit 
here  by  your  fire  all  winter  and  read  the  New  York 
Tribune  and  the  Farmers'  Almanac,  and  go  out 
occasionally  into  the  cow  yard  and  peer  up  at  the 
sky  to  see  what  kind  of  a  day  to-morrow  would  be  ?" 

Sally  tossed  her  head  contemptuously  at  this  cari- 


HIRED    MAN    OR    HUSBAND?       159 

cature  of  what  his  days  with  her  would  be.  "Why  ?" 
she  persisted. 

He  kissed  a  red  curl  on  her  temple.  "Because  I 
want  to  keep  the  dream ;  to  come  back  to  you.  'It's 
under  the  world,  and  over  the  world,  and  back  again 
to  you.'  " 

"I  wonder,"  there  was  curiosity  in  her  tone,  "why 
you  don't  ask  me  to  go  with  you  ?" 

He  laughed.  "To  my  life,  the  life  of  a  tramp 
and  a  vagrant?  That's  all  I  am,  Sally,  just  a 
tramp.  Sometimes  I  get  dead  broke,  and  then  I 
write  something,  enough  to  start  me  off  on  my 
travels.  It's  here  to-day  and  there  to-morrow.  It's 
color  and  change,  and  a  certain  amount  of  hardship. 
Sometimes  a  bit  of  excitement  and  danger,  enough 
to  spice  things.  It's  swinging  around  the  circle  of 
the  year  and  living  on  the  thought  of  the  harvest." 

"And  you  think  I'd  stand  that?"  Her  eyes 
blazed.  "You  think  I'd  sit  here  through  the  long 
winters  and  flatten  my  nose  all  day  long  against  the 
window-panes,  and  run  every  time  I  heard  a  step 
outside,  and  stand  sighing  at  the  door,  and  look  up 
and  down  the  road  to  see  if  you're  coming?" 


160  SALLY    SALT 

"I've  told  you  that  I  want  to  come  back  to  you." 

"And  so  you  can."  Sally  was  still  aflame.  "So 
you  can.  You  can  come  back  just  as  often  as  you 
please — as  my — " 

" — husband,"  he  whispered,  and  kissed  her  again. 

" — as  my  hired  man." 

He  laughed  at  her  quickness  and  audacity,  but 
there  was  vexation  in  his  mirth.  "Woman! 
Woman !  You  want  to  keep  your  own  freedom  and 
clip  my  wings.  If  I  remain  here,  I  should  be,  in 
fact,  your  hired  man,  nothing  more,  while  you  would 
live  your  life  as  you  please." 

"I  wouldn't,"  said  Sally.  "You've  no  right  to 
assume  such  a  thing.  You've  no  call  to  say  it. 
You'd  be  free  to  come  and  go  as  you  pleased.  I've 
lived  too  much  to  meddle  with  other  people." 

"Then  what?" 

"Why,"  turning  on  him  with  sudden  passion,  deep 
sparkles  of  fire  in  her  reckless  eyes,  "you  would 
never  have  thought  and  planned  for  your  freedom 
and  me  too,  if  you  really  loved  me." 

"H-how  do  you  know,  Sally  ?" 

Her  defiant  eyes  softened  suddenly.     "Because," 


HIRED    MAN    OR    HUSBAND?       161 

her  hands  pressed  to  her  heart  and  a  thrilling  ca- 
dence in  her  voice,  "because  I  love  you." 

"Ah-h-h !"     He  caught  her  again. 

But  she  pushed  his  arms  away  with  an  impatient 
gesture.  "I  don't  permit  my  hired  man  to  touch 
me."  She  was  half  the  length  of  the  path  ahead 
of  him. 

"Oh,  you  red-haired  vixen!  You  flaming  sun- 
set!" as  he  caught  up  with  her. 

"But  you  will  marry  me,  nevertheless,"  the  whim- 
sical, devil-may-care  gleam  in  his  eyes.  "You  would 
never  let  possibilities  of — of  future  travel  come  be- 
tween us."  He  paused  before  the  world  "travel," 
and  then  chose  it  as  if  it  gave  him  a  sardonic  amuse- 
ment. 

She  looked  at  him,  and  even  in  the  dusk  he  saw  a 
shadow  like  a  veil  across  her  eyes.  "There's  more 
than  that  between  us,  Anthony,"  she  said,  and  the 
color,  life  and  buoyancy  had  for  once  gone  from  her 
voice,  "more  than  that." 


CHAPTER    XI 

MRS.    HILL    FREES    HER    MIND 

MRS.  HILL  closed  Sally  Salt's  gate  carefully 
behind  her  and  puffed  slowly  up  the  path. 
Her  figure  resembled  nothing  so  much  as  a  tightly 
stuffed  pillow,  but  her  shadow,  which  preceded  her 
owing  to  the  position  of  the  early  afternoon  sun, 
was  elongated  to  a  pleasing  attenuation,  and  Mrs. 
Hill,  choosing  to  regard  it  as  a  correctly  outlined 
silhouette,  viewed  it  with  a  complacent  pride. 

She  wore  her  usual  costume,  a  black  print  gown 
with  white  spots,  a  small  black  cape  ever  slipping 
from  her  ample  shoulders,  an  invariable  black  bon- 
net, which  changed  from  straw  to  felt  as  winter 
followed  summer,  but  which,  despite  alterations  of 
material,  ever  preserved  an  uncompromising  struc- 
tural identity,  and  through  the  medium  of  dejected 
and  wilted  trimming  proclaimed  the  humility  its 
wearer  professed. 

162 


MRS.    HILL    FREES    HER   MIND     163 

Mrs.  Nesbit,  leaning  forward  to  peer,  after  her 
fashion,  through  the  vines  of  the  porch,  watched  the 

stately  approach  of  her  friend  with  an  expression  of 

i 

timid  pleasure  mingled  with  apprehension — pleasure 
that  the  monotony  of  her  rocking-chair  meditations 
was  about  to  be  interrupted,  and  apprehension  of 
the  rebuke  which  she  felt  instinctively  was  in  store 
for  her,  for  Mrs.  Hill  had  so  far  vouchsafed  no 
comment  on  the  new  lilac  silk  gown  or  on  the  helio- 
trope bonnet,  a  delay  which,  as  Mrs.  Nesbit  was 
well  aware,  presaged  evil,  perhaps  a  season  of 
biblical  invective,  for  Mrs.  Hill  was  famed  as  a 
student  of  the  Scriptures,  could  supply  even  the 
preacher  with  a  quotation,  giving  chapter  and  verse 
at  a  moment's  notice,  and  was  especially  conversant 
with  those  prophets  of  a  nerve-shivering  and  blast- 
ing eloquence. 

But  her  treasures  of  vituperation  had  remained 
stored  for  a  day  or  two  now,  and  Mrs.  Nesbit's  in- 
ward quakings  were  painfully  increased  by  this 
ominous  silence.  The  two  had  met,  as  usual,  after 
church  the  preceding  Sunday,  and  Mrs.  Hill  had  so 
far  condescended  as  to  permit  herself  to  be  driven 
•  home  in  Sally's  carriage,  but  after  one  swift,  cold 


164  SALLY    SALT 

glance  at  her  friend's  "purple  and  pride"  she  had 
steadfastly  fixed  her  eyes  on  some  point  far  beyond 
the  fluttering  little  lady  beside  her,  and  had  dis- 
coursed weightily  on  topics  suitable  to  the  day — the 
sermon,  its  inadequacies,  obscurities  and  decline 
from  sound  doctrine ;  next,  a  numbering  of  the  con- 
gregation and  a  lively  discussion  of  possible  motives 
prompting  the  absence  of  this  one  and  the  presence 
of  that;  and  third,  a  comprehensive  analysis  of  the 
delinquencies  of  every  attendant. 

Thus,  absorbing  herself  in  these  time-honored 
and  conventional  themes,  she  entirely  ignored  Mrs. 
Nesbit's  frequent  attempts  to  draw  attention  to  her 
finery  and  her  mouse-like  and  tremulous  nibbles  at 
the  subject  uppermost  in  her  thoughts. 

This  suspense  had  caused  Mrs.  Nesbit  one  or  two 
sleepless  nights,  for  she  fully  recognized  in  the  light 
of  past  experience  that  the  subject  was  merely  de- 
ferred and  must  sooner  or  later  come  up  between 
them. 

Now,  as  Mrs.  Hill  slowly  and  ponderously  swung 
herself  up  the  steps,  her  face  glowing  red  with  her 
exertions,  the  little  woman  behind  the  vines  began 
to  twitter  salutations  and  questions  and  irrelevant 


MRS.    HILL   FREES    HER   MIND     165 

remarks,  with  some  idea  of  placating  the  offended 
gods  of  friendship;  but  the  futility  of  this  procedure 
was  demonstrated  by  Mrs.  Hill's  unmoved  de- 
meanor, for  she  made  no  response  whatever  unless 
certain  sounds  between  a  grunt  and  a  groan  might  be 
so  construed.  Sinking  heavily  into  a  rocking-chair, 
she  untied  her  bonnet  strings,  flung  them  over  her 
shoulders,  and,  accepting  a  hastily  proffered  palm- 
leaf  fan  with  another  groaning  sigh,  waved  it 
solemnly  to  and  fro. 

"I  came  around  by  Ellen  Potter's  this  morning," 
she  announced.  "She's  terrible  upset,  and  no  won- 
der. Her  best  umberel  is  gone." 

"You  don't  say !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Nesbit  eagerly. 
"Her  umberel !  Pity  sakes !  Of  course,  you  mean 
the  one  with  the  silver  handle  that  her  sister  sent 
her  from  the  city  ?" 

Mrs.  Hill  nodded  twice,  three  times.  "She  says 
it  was  solid  silver,"  her  tones  shaded  darkly  with 
doubt  and  suspicion,  "but  before  even  her  nearest 
and  dearest  got  a  squint  at  it  she  covered  it  over 
with  black  silk,  made  a  little  sheath  just  to  fit  it,  so's 
it  wouldn't  tarnish,  she  says.  Well,  maybe,"  again 
the  shading.  "Still,"  with  a  large  firmness,  "I  al- 


1 66  SALLY    SALT 

ways  found  Mrs.  Potter  truthful,  I  must  say  that. 
But  folks  is  up  to  all  kinds  of  tricks  these  days," 
shaking  her  head  ruefully  over  a  degenerate  world. 
"You  see,  the  missionary  society  met  there  yester- 
day afternoon,  and  Mrs.  Potter  says  that  when  she 
was  cleaning  up  and  getting  ready  for  them  she  put 
that  umberel  with  her  own  hands,  in  the  southeast 
corner  of  the  parlor,  where  it  always  stands,  and  she 
never  thought  of  missing  it  until  this  morning. 
When  I  left  there,  about  an  hour  ago,  she  was  tying 
on  her  bonnet  to  make  a  house-to-house  canvass  to 
see  if  any  one  of  the  ladies  might  have  carried  it  off 
by  mistake."  For  the  first  time  she  bent  her  gaze 
upon  Mrs.  Nesbit.  "I  told  her  I  saw  you  going  off 
home  with  an  umberel  tucked  under  your  arm."  » 

"Course  I  did,"  cried  the  little  woman,  straight- 
ening up  in  her  chair  and  acquiring  a  spine,  tempo- 
rarily, at  least.  "Course  I  did,"  two  scarlet  spots 
glowing  in  her  cheeks,  "and  'twas  my  very  own  that 
Sally  gave  me  last  Christmas.  It  has  an  ivory 
handle,  handsomer  than  any  Mrs.  Potter's  got  the 
money  to  buy,  and  I  don't  think,  Hetty  Hill,"  sniff- 
ing audibly,  her  eyes  filling  with  ready  tears,  "that 
you  had  any  call  to  go  and  throw  suspicion  on  me  to 


MRS.    HILL   FREES    HER   MIND     167 

Ellen  Potter.  It  don't  seem  the  part  of  true  friend- 
ship to  me." 

"I  did  my  duty  as  I  saw  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Hill 
callously;  "duty's  no  respecter  of  persons.  If  con- 
science is  clear,  there's  nothing  to  fear.  That's  a 
good  thing  to  remember,  and  easy,  too,  by  reason  of 
rhyming.  Where  is  Mrs.  Salt  to-day?" 

"How  should  I  know?"  Mrs.  Nesbit's  tones 
still  showed  a  trace  of  injury.  "In  the  fields,  I  sup- 
pose." 

"Hmmm!     With  that  Streatham,  I  suppose." 

"I  suppose  so,"  replied  Mrs.  Nesbit  vaguely. 
"Why,  ain't  that  them  now?" 

Mrs.  Hill  leaned  forward,  her  hands  on  her  knees 
and  gazed  down  the  narrowing  perspective  of 
shaded  path  into  the  sun-flooded,  flower-grown 
spaces  of  the  garden.  "No,  it's  John  Witherspoon 
and  Lucy  Parrish." 

"So  it  is,"  with  reviving  animation.  "Looks  kind 
of  pretty,  don't  it?  A-throwing  flowers  at  each 
other,  and  him  a-chasing  her  around  the  paths." 

Mrs.  Hill  gave  a  backward  and  dissenting  jerk  of 

the  head.     "Maybe  it  looks  pretty  to  you,  Melinda, 

.and  others  like  you,  but  I  tell  you  it  looks  mighty 


168  SALLY    SALT 

different  to  any  one  whose  thoughts  is  taken  with 
the  serious  side  of  life."  She  gazed  again  down  the 
sun-dappled  path  where  Lucy  stood  laughing  into 
Witherspoon's  eyes,  and  slowly  shook  her  head  back 
and  forth.  "  'Weep  and  howl,  ye  rich  men,'  "  she 
repeated  unctuously.  "Yes,  and  there's  another 
mighty  true  saying,  'You  can't  touch  pitch  and  not 
be  defiled.'  That  was  brought  home  to  me  Sunday, 
Melinda,"  turning  about  and  facing  the  shrinking 
figure  in  the  chair  with  a  cold  and  steady  regard. 
"Living  among  those  that  makes  perishing  vanities 
like  clothes  their  idols  with  feet  of  clay,  is  going  to 
tell  on  any  one,  church  member  or  not,  sooner  or 
later.  That  was  certainly  showed  me  Sunday;  it 
certainly  was,"  repeating  the  words  with  a  slow  and 
solemn  emphasis. 

Mrs.  Nesbit  fluttered  her  wings  desperately  in 
the  effort  to  escape,  but,  as  inevitably  as  the  silly 
moth,  she  flew  straight  into  the  flame.  It  seemed  to 
her  that,  entirely  without  her  own  volition,  she 
heard  herself  asking  the  question  she  would  have 
gone  far  to  avoid.  "H-how  ?" 

Mrs.  Hill  busied  herself  for  a  moment  in  adjust- 
ing a  bonnet  pin.  She  was  as  unhasting,  as  unpity- 


MRS.    HILL   FREES    HER   MIND     169 

ing  as  fate.  "We're  a  plain  congregation  of  plain 
people,"  she  said  at  last,  sententiously,  "and  there 
was  plenty  among  us  Sunday  that  found  lilac  silk 
dresses  and  white  bonnets  all  covered  with  heliotrope 
flowers  so  out  of  place  as  to  be  laughable.  I  saw 
more  than  one,  Sunday,  with  their  handkerchiefs 
and  hymn-books  up  to  their  faces,  and  some  of  the 
younger  ones  couldn't  help  snickering  outright." 

This  was  the  thumb-screws  with  a  vengeance.  It 
may  be  assumed  that  when  the  peacock,  spreading 
arrogantly  his  gorgeous  plumage,  is  censured  for 
vanity  he  receives  the  rebuke  either  with  indifferent 
scorn  or  mock  humility;  but  when  he  learns  that  a 
jeering  world,  oblivious  to  the  beauty  of  his  feath- 
ers, is  absorbed  in  the  amused  contemplation  of  his 
ungainly  feet,  his  point  of  view  changes  with  great 
rapidity. 

So  Mrs.  Nesbit.  Much  as  her  timorous  soul  had 
quaked  at  the  thought  of  the  inevitable  reckoning, 
she  was  nevertheless  prepared  for  it,  but  to  learn 
that  instead  of  exciting  awed  comment  she  had 
served  as  food  for  laughter  stirred  her  swift,  emo- 
tional anger. 
•  "I  don't  care!"  she  cried  passionately.  "I  don't 


1 70  SALLY    SALT 

care  if  they  did!  Mean  old  things!  If  they 
laughed  it  was  just  because  they  were  envious.  I 
know  'em  all.  And  nobody,  I  don't  care  who,  can 
say  that  my  gown  and  my  bunnit  wasn't  pretty." 

Mrs.  Hill  was  quite  unmoved.  "Pretty  enough," 
she  admitted  grudgingly,  "but  was  they  in  accord- 
ance with  a  church  member,  not  to  speak  of  a 
woman  of  your  age?  Fine  feathers  don't  always 
make  fine  birds,  especially  if  the  birds  has  wrinkles 
and  gray  hairs,  Melinda;  then  they  just  seem  to 
show  'em  up.  Every  time  I  stole  a  glance  at  you 
yesterday  morning  you  were  either  looking  at  your 
gloves  or  straightening  your  sleeves,  or  putting  a 
hand  up  to  settle  your  bonnet;  but  how  much  did 
you  hear  of  the  sermon?  That's  what  I'm  asking 
you ;  how — much — did — you — hear — of — the — ser- 
mon?" 

Mrs.  Nesbit  cowered  at  this  inquisitorial  question. 
"I — I — "  she  began,  when  there  was  a  saving  click 
of  the  gate,  and  Mrs.  Hill's  attention  was  riveted 
on  Sally  and  Streatham,  who  entered  together. 

They  were  laughing  as  they  came  up  the  path, 
and  Sally,  as  usual,  was  tossing  her  hatless  red  head 
in  the  sunshine.  It  was  noontide,  hot  and  high,  the 


MRS.    HILL    FREES    HER   MIND     171 

benediction  of  the  blue  and  cloudless  sky  upon  a 
sun-warmed  and  basking  earth. 

"I  don't  like  that  Streatham,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Hill,  disfavor  in  her  glance,  as  the  two  turned 
toward  the  garden  and  joined  Witherspoon  and 
Lucy.  "Here  he  is  currying  favor  with  Sally  Salt, 
all  on  account  of  her  rich  farms,  and  acting  like  his 
heart's  set  on  her,  and  all  the  time  he's  carrying  on 
with  Hilda  Kurd." 

"Hilda  Hurd !"  echoed  Mrs.  Nesbit  weakly. 

Mrs.  Hill  nodded  solemnly.  Then,  cautiously 
drawing  her  chair  nearer  Mrs.  Nesbit:  "It's  only 
been  a  few  nights  back  that  he  was  seen  walking 
down  the  road  with  his  arm  around  Hilda  and  in  the 
bright  moonlight,  too.  And  that's  really  the  thing 
I  came  to  see  you  about.  It  ain't  right  that  Mrs. 
Salt  should  be  left  in  ignorance  of  this  matter,  and 
you're  the  one  to  tell  her." 

"Me!"  Mrs.  Nesbit's  voice  ran  the  gamut  of 
horror  and  incredulity.  She  fumbled  for  her  hand- 
kerchief. 

"Yes,  you,"  affirmed  her  mentor  strongly,  now  on 
her  feet  and  tying  her  bonnet  strings.  "When  duty 
calls,  you  got  to  answer,  no  matter  what  happens. 


172  SALLY    SALT 

Right's  right,  and  there's  nothing  for  you  to  do, 
Mrs.  Nesbit,  but  to  tell  Mrs.  Salt  what  you've 
heard,  being  particular,  of  course,  not  to  mention 
where  you  heard  it.  But  it's  your  duty  to  tell  her, 
no  matter  what  happens  to  you,  even  if  she  should 
put  you  right  out  in  the  road.  Right's  right."  She 
grasped  her  black  cotton  umbrella  and  slowly  de- 
scended the  steps  sidewise,  testing  her  weight  care- 
fully on  one  foot  before  she  ventured  to  put  forth 
the  other. 

"Well,  good-by,"  she  called  back  over  her  shoul- 
der from  the  last  step.  "We've  had  a  nice  morning, 
ain't  we?  I  guess  I'll  stop  in  at  Ellen  Potter's  and 
see  if  she  had  any  luck  about  her  umberel." 

But  the  huddled  figure  on  the  porch  made  no  re- 
sponse. She  was  gazing  at  a  fixed  spot,  hypnotized 
by  the  mental  picture  of  herself  sitting  out  in  the 
roadside  on  her  little  trunk. 

"Poor  little  Nesbit !"  said  Sally,  lifting  her  head 
from  the  cup  of  one  of  her  tall  white  lilies  long 
enough  to  observe  the  departure  of  Mrs.  Hill,  strid- 
ing sturdily,  as  one  who  had  given  his  message  with- 
out fear  or  favor,  and  the  contrasting  limpness  of 
Mrs.  Nesbit. 


MRS.    HILL   FREES    HER   MIND     173 

Sally  was  on  her  knees  before  a  great  clump  of 
lilies,  adoring  them,  rapturously  inhaling  their  fra- 
grance, caressing  their  shining  leaves. 

"S-she  looks  as  if  she  needed  a  nurse,"  said 
Streatham,  his  eyes  upon  Mrs.  Nesbit.  "The 
r-really  g-good  missionary  is  usually  a  trained  in- 
quisitor. Soul-doctors  and  body-doctors  may  be 
roughly  divided  into  two  classes:  the  suave  and  the 
brutal.  Mrs.  Hill,  now,  I  should  put  in  the  latter 
class.  She  s-scorns  the  methods  of  modern  sur- 
gery, the  kind  anesthetic,  and  removes  the  mote 
from  her  brother's  eye  with  a  good  old-fashioned 
pruning  hook.  Efficacious,  no  doubt,  but  a  little 
rough  on  the  victim." 

"One  of  us  really  ought  to  go  and  administer  first 
aid  to  the  injured,  I  suppose,"  said  Lucy  Parrish, 
making,  however,  no  effort  to  do  so. 

"That  is  what  I  wanted  to  do  in  the  south  field  a 
bit  ago,"  said  Streatham  in  an  aggrieved  tone,  "but 
I  wasn't  allowed  to  do  so." 

"Indeed,  no,"  said  Sally  heartily.  "John,"  ap- 
pealing to  Witherspoon,  "what  do  you  think  hap- 
pened? One  of  the  reapers  broke  down,  and  I 
'immediately  saw,  not  only  in  Anthony's  eyes,  but  in 


174  SALLY    SALT 

the  eyes  of  every  man  in  that  field,  that  gleam  that 
always  comes  when  they  think  that  they  are  going  to 
get  a  chance  to  tinker  at  a  piece  of  machinery.  The 
clumsier  the  man  and  the  more  intricate  and  deli- 
cate the  machinery  the  more  his  fingers  itch  to  get 
at  it.  It  is  always  so.  A  man  never  sees  the  least 
thing  out  of  order  that  he  doesn't  say,  'I  can  mend 
that  for  you  in  a  jiffy;  just  hand  it  over  to  me,'  and 
something  that  might  be  set  right  in  no  time  by  a 
skilled  worker  is  thus  hopelessly  ruined.  I  knew 
the  other  men  wouldn't  dare  touch  that  reaper  while 
I  sent  for  a  machinist,  but  I  couldn't  trust  Anthony, 
so  I  told  him  dinner  was  ready.  Seeing  that  he  was 
under  the  influence  of  one  passion,  I  threw  another 
into  the  field  and  watched  them  fight  it  out.  Hun- 
ger conquered ;  but  you  should  have  seen  the  way  his 
feet  dragged." 

"B-but,"  argued  Streatham,  "don't  you  see  that 
we  should  be  commended,  not  blamed,  nor  held  up 
to  ridicule?  It's  a  left-over  impulse  from  the  age 
of  chivalry.  Then  we  wandered  about  redressing 
the  wrongs  of  unhappy  maidens.  Now  the  unhappy 
maidens  are  fully  capable  of  adjusting  their  own 


MRS.    HILL   FREES    HER   MIND     175 

wrongs,  and  nothing  is  left  for  us  to  adjust  but 
machinery." 

"Speaking  of  adjustment,"  Sally  broke  in,  "I 
suppose  I  really  should  go  and  set  poor  little  Nesbit 
straight.  She  looks  as  if  her  brains  were  scrambled 
eggs." 

"No,"  Anthony  protested,  "come  down  to  the 
barn  instead,  and  see  the  new  fox  terrier  puppies. 
Mrs.  Nesbit  is  an  india-rubber  butterfly.  She  al- 
ways looks  crumbled  to  powder  after  Mrs.  Hill  has 
taken  a  turn  at  breaking  her  on  the  wheel,  but  you 
know  that  she's  as  good  as  new  in  an  hour  or  so,  and 
anxious  to  be  broken  all  over  again.  The  people 
who  are  born  to  be  imposed  on  in  this  world  are 
always  aggrieved  when  they're  not.  Come  and  see 
the  puppies,  Sally." 

Sally  was  not  difficult  to  persuade,  and  she  and 
Streatham  strolled  off  together,  Lucy  and  Wither- 
spoon  preferring  the  cool  seclusion  of  the  garden. 

As  Sally  and  Anthony  passed  the  kitchen  windows 
the  most  delightful  and  appetizing  odors  were 
wafted  to  them,  and  Aunt  Mandy  thrust  out  her 
turbaned  head. 


176  SALLY    SALT 

"Don5  you  be  fixin'  to  keep  Miss  Sally  down  dere 
too  long,  Mr.  Anthony,  playin'  wid  dem  worthless 
lil'  pup-holm's.  I  goin'  to  dish  up  dinner  in  'bout  a 
minute,  and  there's  some  tings  you  always  got  yo' 
mouf  set  for,  Mr.  Anthony.  How  'bout  roas' 
chicken,  an'  co'n  puddin',  an'  sweet  taters  baked 
wid  sugar,  an'  lima  beans  fresh  from  de  gyarden? 
He,  he,  he!"  Her  sides  shook  with  laughter  as 
Anthony  went  through  a  pantomime  of  ecstasy  at 
the  mention  of  each  separate  dish.  "Oh,  Miss 
Sally!"  lifting  her  voice  as  they  sauntered  on,  "ef 
you  sees  dat  Wilmerdine  loiterin'  round  anywheres, 
you  send  her  right  home,  double  quick,  please 
ma'am." 

"If  my  eyes  don't  deceive  me,"  remarked  Sally,  a 
moment  later,  "that  is  Wilmerdine  now,  pirouetting 
before  Uncle  Poodle  and  reinforced  by  all  the 
puppies.  Why  can't  she  leave  that  poor  old  man 
alone?" 

"But  you  must  admit,"  urged  Streatham,  "that 
Uncle  Poodle  does  not  seem  particularly  affected  bv 
the  pirouetting,  although,  to  speak  impartially,  I 
can  not  believe  that  such  superlative  indifference  is 
genuine." 


MRS.    HILL    FREES    HER   MIND     177 

"If  it  isn't  the  real  thing,  it's  a  mighty  good  imi- 
tation," said  Sally  dryly. 

Streatham  burst  out  laughing,  the  low,  almost 
soundless  laughter  in  which  he  expressed  his  mirth. 

"Sally,  look;  he  might  be  one  of  the  three  mon- 
keys of  Nikko,  from  his  pose  and  appearance,  see- 
ing no  evil,  hearing  no  evil  and  speaking  no  evil." 

In  truth,  Uncle  Poodle  might  have  been  a  gro- 
tesque image  carved  in  ebony  guarding  the  entrance 
to  Sally's  kitchen  garden.  He  leaned  upon  one  of 
the  posts  of  the  little  paling  gate,  a  small,  bent 
figure,  with  short  bowed  legs  and  enormously  long 
arms.  His  face,  as  always,  wore  an  expression  of 
almost  incredible  solemnity,  and  his  brooding,  mel- 
ancholy eyes  were  lifted  unwinkingly  to  the  brilliant 
Sky. 

Before  him  Wilmerdine,  a  thistledown  for  light- 
ness and  grace,  ran  races  and  frolicked  with  four  fat 
little  fox  terrier  puppies.  Her  heavy,  coarse,  black 
hair  had  become  loosened  and  hung  low  on  her 
shoulders,  and  the  lovely  cream  of  her  cheeks  was 
stained  a  deep  crimson.  When  she  occasionally 
varied  her  pretty  play  by  dropping  upon  the  ground 
f.nd  letting  the  puppies  overrun  and  tumble  over  her, 


178  SALLY    SALT 

her  crisp  pink  frock  spread  about  her  like  the  petals 
of  a  hibiscus  flower. 

At  the  sound  of  Sally's  and  Streatham's  voices 
Uncle  Poodle  dropped  his  gaze  until  it  rested  upon 
them,  or  rather  upon  the  tops  of  their  heads,  for 
never  did  he  permit  it  to  fall  so  low  as  Wilmerdine. 

"  'Scuse  me,  Miss  Sally,"  he  said,  advancing  with 
a  profound  bow,  "  'scuse  me,  Mr.  Anthony,  but  I 
ain't  satisfied  wid  de  way  de  tomatoses  is  lookin', 
Miss  Sally,  an'  ef  it  wouldn't  disturb  you  none, 
could  you  pleas'n  stop  an'  look  at  'em,  an'  den  we 
might  be  concoctin'  some  way  to  kin'  o'  brace  'em 
up  an'  have  'em  seem  perter?" 

"All  right,  Uncle  Poodle."  Sally  caught  one  of 
the  puppies  as  it  made  a  rush  at  her  ankles,  and  held 
it  up  against  her  face.  "The  darling !  Look,  Tony, 
he's  dragging  my  hair  down  with  his  little  teeth. 
I'll  be  right  out  after  dinner,  Uncle  Poodle,  before  I 
go  to  the  fields,  and  we'll  decide  on  the  particular 
kind  of  a  bracer  the  tomatoes  need." 


CHAPTER   XII 

MRS.    HURD'S    NEXT    MOVE 

TRUE  to  her  word,  as  soon  as  Sally  had  fin- 
ished her  midday  dinner  she  sauntered  down 
through  her  kitchen  garden  to  observe  her  drooping 
tomato  vines.  Now  and  then  she  stooped  and 
plucked  a  sprig  of  thyme  or  summer  savory  and 
nibbled  it  as  she  walked ;  but  the  even  rows  of  well- 
cared-for  vegetables  on  either  side  of  the  path  did 
not  receive  anything  like  the  full  share  of  her  at- 
tention. 

Sally  was  by  nature  an  optimist.  To  worry  re- 
quired an  effort  on  her  part,  and  yet  she  had  received 
a  shock  on  the  previous  Sunday  from  which  even 
her  joyous  and  soaring  nature  had  not  fully  recov- 
ered. The  discovery  of  some  secret  understanding 
between  Anthony  and  Hilda,  the  girl's  mysterious 
visits,  the  peculiar  embarrassment  of  her  manner — 
these  had  caused  Sally  some  sleepless  hours  of  puz- 

179 


i8o  SALLY    SALT 

zled  cogitation.  But,  imperious  even  with  herself, 
she  had  resolutely  put  these  things  from  her,  and 
had  refused  to  descend  either  to  the  level  of  petty 
suspicion  or  of  a  more  degrading  jealousy.  And 
very  widely  she  would  have  opened  her  eyes  at  the 
mention  of  the  latter  word  in  connection  with  her 
own  emotions — very  widely  indeed. 

She  was  singularly  free  from  any  taint  of  vanity, 
but  had  any  one  ventured  to  hint  to  her  of  the  possi- 
bility of  her  being  jealous  of  Hilda,  she  would  have 
burst  into  a  peal  of  rich  and  ringing  laughter,  en- 
tirely unfeigned  and  natural,  her  blue  eyes  twink- 
ling with  mirth  and  gleaming  with  just  one  deep 
spark  of  fire.  Jealous  of  Hilda !  The  rose  jealous 
of  the  thistledown?  Wine  of  water?  The  sun  of 
the  moon  ? 

Nevertheless,  although  she  had  not  permitted  her- 
self to  show  the  least  difference  in  her  manner 
toward  Anthony,  she  was  deeply  hurt  by  his  refusal 
to  admit  her  to  his  confidence.  Now,  as  her  mind 
reverted  to  it,  a  little  frown  deepened  between  her 
brows.  Why  had  he  withheld  it?  Oh,  nagging 
Kid  insistent  question !  Why  ? 

The  slight  crunch  of  gravel,  an  approaching  foot- 


MRS.    KURD'S   NEXT   MOVE        181 

step,  recalled  her  to  herself,  and  she  lifted  her  eyes 
to  see  the  tall  figure  of  Mrs.  Hurd,  with  the  in- 
evitable Trip  at  her  heels,  proceeding  slowly  up  the 
walk  from  the  lower  end  of  the  garden. 

"What  on  earth  can  she  want?"  muttered  Sally 
vexedly,  and,  instead  of  advancing  hospitably  to 
meet  her  visitor,  stood  perfectly  still,  her  level  and 
slightly  questioning  gaze  requesting  very  plainly 
the  reason  for  the  intrusion.  The  bean  vines,  twin- 
ing in  luxuriant  wreaths  and  festoons  over  their  tall 
poles  and  waving  flaunting  little  tendrils  from  the 
summits,  made  a  fluttering  and  effective  background 
for  Sally's  copper  hair  and  blue  cotton  frock. 

Mrs.  Kurd's  advance  was  not  rapid.  Her  move- 
ments were  always  slow  and  heavy,  and  in  the  pres- 
ent instance  she  apparently  saw  no  occasion  for 
haste.  Her  face  in  the  depths  of  her  black  slat  sun- 
bonnet  was  as  expressionless  as  ever,  set  in  its  usual 
granite  calm,  and  yet,  as  she  looked  up  to  see  Sally — 
a  picture  painted  in  the  pure  pigments  of  nature,  in 
living  and  brilliant  colors,  Sally,  vital  as  the  earth, 
with  her  red  gold  hair  and  the  unquenchable  joy  of 
her  spirit,  sparkling,  leaping,  laughing  in  her  blue 
eyes — there  was  a  sudden  gleam  of  triumph  in  Maria 


182  SALLY    SALT 

Kurd's  inscrutable  face,  as  if  at  last  the  opportunity 
had  come  to  assuage  her  raw  resentment,  hidden, 
but  ever  rankling,  that  this  impetuous,  arrogant 
Sally  Salt  had  discovered  the  secret  passion  of  her 
soul,  that  passion  whose  roots  had  twisted  and 
wound  themselves  through  her  nature,  absorbing  all 
generous  impulses  and  nourishing  only  the  one  mon- 
strous and  poisonous  blossom — love  of  money. 

"Good  day,  Mrs.  Salt,"  she  said  as  she  drew  near, 
her  voice  more  humbly  suave  than  ever.  "I  just 
thought  I'd  step  over  for  Harris,  and  save  you  the 
trouble  of  sending  him  home.  I'm  kindly  obliged 
to  you,  Mrs.  Salt,  for  the  trouble  you've  taken  about 
that  child.  I  see  now  that  it  was  all  for  the  best 
that  he  came  to  you." 

"Trouble!"  laughed  Sally  carelessly.  "He's  a 
joy.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  have  him  all  the 
time." 

Maria  Kurd's  eyelids  drooped.  "I'm  sorry,  Mrs. 
Salt,  but  I  couldn't  do  that.  I  need  him  at  home 
just  now  to  help  me.  I  need  him  particularly  just 
now."  The  words  were  spoken  with  a  peculiar 
emphasis,  an  underlying  meaning  which  arrested 
Sally's  wondering  and  indifferent  attention,  but  for 


MRS.    KURD'S    NEXT    MOVE        183 

the  moment  only.  A  little  silence  fell  between  the 
two,  and  then  Mrs.  Hurd  drew  a  long  breath  and 
cast  a  quick,  furtive  glance  at  Sally. 

"You  see,  a  good  deal  that's  been  coming  to  me's 
likely  to  be  cut  off." 

"How's  that?"  asked  Sally  idly.  She  was  look- 
ing at  Trip,  and  her  mouth  twitched  involuntarily. 
How  uncannily  that  mongrel  cur  suggested  his  mis- 
tress! He  had  the  same  heavy  slowness  of  move- 
ment, the  same  unreadable  eyes,  and  the  same  suave 
and  yet  commanding  humility  of  bearing.  A  little 
shiver  ran  down  her  spine.  They  were  two  black 
blots  on  the  sunlight.  Shadows,  both  of  them,  and 
the  human  suggestion  of  shadow  ever  carries  with  it 
something  sinister  and  chilling. 

"Well,  you  see," — Mrs.  Hurd  paused  and  looked 
cautiously  about  her, — "there  is  no  one  here  to  over- 
hear us,  is  there,  Mrs.  Salt?  This  is  particularly 
confidential." 

"Oh,  there's  no  one  around."  Sally  spoke  in 
half -tolerant,  half -impatient  amusement  at  her  com- 
panion's air  of  mystery.  "They  say  that  walls  have 
ears,  but  I  never  heard  that  vegetables  have." 

Both  tone  and  words  brought  a  quick  but  almost 


i84  SALLY    SALT 

immediately  suppressed  flash  to  Mrs.  Kurd's  eyes, 
a  tinge  of  color  to  her  cheeks,  but  her  tone,  lower 
and  more  deprecating  than  ever,  seemed  to  belie  the 
menace  of  her  words. 

"I  guess  before  I've  finished,  Mrs.  Salt,  you'll  be 
as  anxious  as  I  am  now  that  there  sha'n't  be  any  one 
listening  around.  You  know  Mr.  Grissom  that's 
been  taking  his  meals  with  us  right  along  ?" 

Sally  nodded,  and  now  she  bent  her  gaze  more  in- 
tently upon  her  uninvited  guest. 

"Well,"  continued  Mrs.  Kurd,  "it  looks  as  if  he'd 
got  into  some  sort  of  trouble.  Jake  Washburne,  he 
brought  me  this  paper  the  other  evening."  She 
drew  a  tightly  folded  newspaper  from  her  pocket. 
"Will  you  read  this  article,  Mrs.  Salt?"  opening  the 
paper  and  indicating  certain  heavy  head-lines  with 
her  long,  fleshy  forefinger. 

Sally  uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise  at  the 
pictured  face  of  Grissom,  and  ran  her  eye  quickly 
down  the  column. 

"Good  heavens!  A  confidence  man!  Just  as  I 
— well,  you  can't  be  accused  of  entertaining"  an  angel 
unawares,  can  you,  Mrs.  Hurd  ?" 

At  her  bantering  tone  Maria  Kurd's  nostrils  con- 


MRS.    HURD'S    NEXT    MOVE        185 

tracted  slightly,  and  two  white  dints  showed  them- 
selves in  the  corners  of  her  mouth. 

"Oh,  I  guess  I  ain't  the  only  one."  She  spoke 
with  a  deadly  and  ominous  meaning.  "But," 
quickly  recovering  herself,  "I  guess  there's  no  doubt 
but  what  it's  Grissom.  You  see,  Jake,  he's  been  in 
correspondence  with  the  heads  of  the  police,  and  he 
thinks  he's  got  Mr.  Grissom  sure." 

"Has  he  been  arrested?"  asked  Sally. 

"No'm,  not  yet.  You  see,  he  went  away  a  day 
or  two  before  Take  got  on  to  all  this,  and  he  won't 
be  back  till — well,  a  few  days.  Then  Jake  will  get 
him  the  minute  he  strikes  the  place." 

"Then  Hilda—!"  cried  Sally,  a  sudden  light 
breaking  upon  her. 

"Hilda!"  repeated  the  girl's  mother  contemptu- 
ously. "Hilda  knows  nothing  of  all  this." 

"Then  what — !"  Sally  stopped  short,  withheld 
from  further  speech  by  some  curious  intuition  which 
she  could  not  have  explained  even  to  herself. 

"Oh,  you  thought  that  since  Jake  is  so  struck  on 
Hilda,  he  would  naturally  tell  her  first?"  Mrs. 
Hurd  answered  Sally's  broken  interrogation  with  a 
question.  "No,  he's  got  too  much  sense  for  that, 


i86  SALLY    SALT 

even  if  he  is  in  love  with  her.  You  can't  count  on 
Hilda.  There's  no  dependence  to  be  placed  on  her. 
It  was  her  mother  he  came  to  see  for  once,"  with  a 
sort  of  grim  humor,  "and  he  told  me  all  about  it 
Sunday  evening,  sitting  on  our  porch  in  the  moon- 
light while  Hilda  had  mooned  off  somewhere,  as 
usual;  with  her  father,  most  likely.  .So  I  thought 
I'd  come  to  see  you  to-day." 

Her  voice  was  now  so  pregnant  with  meaning  that 
it  would  seem  as  if  the  most  indifferent  and  absent- 
minded  of  listeners  must  perforce  be  struck  by  it; 
but  to  Sally  it  conveyed  nothing.  Indeed',  she 
scarcely  heard  it.  She  was  thinking  rapidly,  ab- 
sorbedly,  piecing  the  events  of  the  last  few  days 
together  in  her  mind,  and  so  admirably  did  the 
pieces  fit,  that  with  her  mental  patchwork  came  a 
sense  of  buoyant  relief.  It  was  all  perfectly  clear 
now.  Hilda  had  evidently  overheard  the  conversa- 
tion between  her  mother  and  Washburne,  and  in  her 
anxiety  to  help  Grissom  had  turned  to  Anthony  for 
assistance.  That  accounted  for  her  agitation,  her 
peculiar  conduct  on  Sunday  night.  Yes,  that  was 
it.  Almost  distraught  by  the  danger  which  threat- 
ened Grissom,  she  had  come  to  Anthony  to  unbur* 


MRS.    KURD'S    NEXT    MOVE        187 

den  her  mind,  and  he,  out  of  the  kindness  of  his 
heart,  had  first  calmed  her  fears  and  then  had  ridden 
off  at  midnight  to  send  a  message  of  warning  to 
her  lover. 

Sally  breathed  a  long  sigh  and  looked  up  with 
ecstatic  eyes  at  the  sapphire  sky.  The  whole  hide- 
ous prison  of  her  doubts  fell  in  ruins  about  her, 
leaving  her  gloriously  free.  She  looked  abroad 
over  wood  and  field,  every  shade  of  green  melting 
through  all  gradations  of  tone  and  blending  har- 
moniously to  a  full  vitality  of  color  in  the  amber 
light.  Sally  felt  as  if  she  were  in  a  wide,  fathom- 
less ocean  of  sunlight,  a  tideless,  peaceful  sea  which 
rose  as  high  as  her  heart  and  flooded  it  with  hap- 
piness. 

She  understood  now  why  Anthony  had  refused 
her  his  confidence.  It  was  Hilda's  secret  he  was 
keeping,  not  his  own. 

"I  thought  I'd  better  come  to  see  you  to-day,  all 
things  considered."  Mrs.  Hurd's  menacing,  patient 
voice  broke  through  her  dreaming. 

"That  was  kind,"  murmured  Sally,  and  turned 
gay  eyes  upon  her  visitor.  As  she  did  so  it  sud- 
denly seemed  to  her  that  the  golden  glory  of  the  day 


1 88  SALLY    SALT 

was  dimmed ;  again  that  little  chill  ran  over  her,  and 
she  shivered  slightly.  That  black  figure,  imper- 
turbable, waiting,  with  granite  pale  face  and  im- 
penetrable eyes,  was  like  some  great  raven,  an 
image  of  doom  and  foreboding  in  the  gold-green 
sparkle  of  the  garden. 

"What  is  it  you  want  with  me,  Mrs.  Kurd?" 
Sally  spoke  with  an  imperious  change  of  tone.  "I 
should  now  be  in  the  fields." 

Maria  Hurd  laughed,  a  single  harsh  croak.  "I 
guess  you'll  be  more  interested  in  what  I've  got  to 
say,  Mrs.  Salt,  than  in  anything  that's  going  on  in 
the  fields." 

"I !"  with  a  haughty,  backward  toss  of  her  head. 
"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?  Come,  Mrs.  Hurd," 
her  impatience  beginning  to  be  touched  with  be- 
wilderment, "do  tell  me  what  it  is  you  have  to  say." 

The  shadowiest  of  smiles  flickered  over  Mrs. 
Kurd's  face.  "You  didn't  read  that  article  in  the 
paper  careful.  Neither  did  Jake  Washburne." 
There  was  a  touch  of  contempt  in  her  tones.  "Read 
it  over  again,  this  part,  and  read  it  careful."  She 
came  close  to  Sally  and  pointed  out  the  paragraph 
which  she  wished  her  to  read. 


MRS.    KURD'S    NEXT    MOVE        189 

And  Sally  read : 

"No  photograph  is  obtainable  of  Grissom's  ac- 
complice, who  seems  to  be  an  unknown  quantity  in 
police  annals,  but  from  the  most  accurate  descrip- 
tion of  him  which  could  be  secured,  he  appears  to 
have  been  a  tall,  loose- jointed  fellow  with  blue-gray 
eyes,  a  tanned  face  and  light  hair." 

The  paper  was  crumpled  fiercely  in  Sally's  hand. 
Her  whole  body  seemed  for  a  moment  to  shrink  and 
to  gather  itself  together  with  tense  force,  as  if  to 
withstand  a  blow.  Then,  by  an  effort  of  will,  the 
muscles  relaxed,  she  lifted  her  eyes,  gleaming  blue 
as  the  sea  in  her  pallid  face,  and  steadily,  defiantly 
met  the  hard,  gloating  triumph  of  the  other  woman's 
gaze. 

"Well,  what  of  it?  Why  do  you  show  this  to 
me?"  Her  cool  surprise  was  almost  natural. 

"Kind  o'  funny,  ain't  it,"  Mrs.  Kurd's  tones  ex- 

* 

pressed  an  innocent  wonder,  "that  the  description  of 
Grissom's  accomplice  should  fit  Mr.  Streatham  like 
a  glove?  Kind  of  funny,  too,  that  they  should  both 
be  here  at  the  same  time.  I  remember,"  reminis- 
cently,  "the  day  that  Mr.  Streatham  got  here.  Gris- 
sbm  came  in  to  dinner  in  a  great  state.  'I've  just 


190  SALLY    SALT 

seen  a  stranger  at  Mrs.  Salt's,'  he  said.  'I  wonder 
if  you  know  who  he  is  ?' 

"  'Oh,  that  must  be  Mr.  Streatham/  I  said,  setting 
his  dinner  before  him ;  'he  comes  every  year  for  the 
harvesting.' 

"  'Streatham !'  he  says,  and  then  laughs.  'Strea- 
tham!' he  repeats,  as  if  the  name  was  kind  of  fa- 
miliar. 'I  thought  I  couldn't  be  mistaken.' 

"  'Do  you  know  him  ?'  I  asks,  struck  by  something 
in  his  tone. 

"  'Know  him !'  he  laughs  again,  'know  Tony !  I 
guess  I  do.  I  know  him  of  old.'  That's  what  he 
said.  Of  course,  Mrs.  Salt,  it  may  not  mean  any- 
thing, and  again  it  may  mean  a  good  deal.  I've 
been  studying'  considerably  about  my  duty  in  this 
matter." 

"Shut  up!"  said  Sally,  her  patience  at  breaking 
point,  her  voice  ringing  with  anger  and  pain.  "Why 
have  you  come  to  me  with  this?  What  is  it  you 
want  now  ?" 

Trip  stirred,  half  rose,  and  then,  in  obedience  to 
a  slight  motion  of  his  mistress'  hand,  lay  down 
again.  "Money,"  said  Mrs.  Kurd  softly,  and  with 
a  sententiousness  equal  to  Sally's  own.  "You  see, 


/MRS.    KURD'S    NEXT    MOVE        191 

Mrs.  Salt,  you're  so  free-handed  and  generous,"  sh$ 
faltered,  actually  quailing  before  the  lightning  of 
Sally's  eyes,  and  then,  with  a  faint,  scornful  smile 
at  her  temporary  weakness,  went  on,  "and  you  see, 
Jake  Washburne  didn't  half  read  that  article;  his 
mind  was  so  taken  up  with  the  idea  of  finding  Gris- 
som  and  claiming  that  reward  that  he  couldn't  take 
in  anything  else.  Of  course,  he  may  read  it  over 
again  and  take  notice  of  the  description  of  Mr. 
Streath — "  she  stopped  under  another  blazing  glance 
and  carefully  amended  her  speech,  "of  the  descrip- 
tion that  seems  to  fit  Mr.  Streatham,  but  Jake  is 
slow-witted,  and  he'd  never  think  of  fitting  it  to  Mr. 
Streatham,  who  comes  here  year  after  year  and  is 
known  to  be  a  particular  friend  of  yours.  No,  there 
isn't  one  cha'nce  in  a  thousand  that  Jake  would  ever 
think  of  it  himself."  Then  slowly,  that  Sally  might 
grasp  the  full  import  of  every  word :  "Certainly  I'd 
be  the  last  to  point  it  out  to  him,  unless  I  suddenly 
felt  it  my  duty.  You  see,  Mrs.  Salt,  my  conscience 
might  get  to  troubling  me  at  any  time.  Well,"  after 
a  moment  or  two  of  waiting  silence,  which  Sally  did 
not  break,  "I  must  be  going.  You'll  want  a  little 
time  to  think  about  this  and  to  talk  it  over  with  Mr. 


192  SALLY    SALT 

Streatham,  so  I'll  stop  in  again  later,  and  we'll  see 
what  arrangements  can  be  made.  Come  on,  Trip." 

They  moved  away  together  down  the  path,  the 
dog  following  his  mistress  with  an  exact  reproduc- 
tion of  her  peculiar  clumsiness  of  motion. 

"Sally!  Sa-al-ly!"  Lucy  Parrish's  voice  float- 
ing through  the  garden  aroused  her,  standing  like  a 
statue,  her  fingers  clutching  the  paper,  her  eyes  star- 
ing before  her,  motionless,  almost  breathless,  in  a 
trance  of  pain  which  subdued  and  benumbed  all  her 
alert  senses.  So  she  had  stood  for  the  last  ten  min- 
utes, and  so  she  might  have  continued  to  stand  for 
an  even  longer  period  had  not  Lucy's  high,  clear 
voice,  growing  nearer  every  moment,  roused  her 
from  this  nightmare  catalepsy. 

Awake,  alarmed,  she  started  forward  and,  follow- 
ing her  immediate  and  primitive  instinct,  looked 
about  her  for  some  place  to  hide.  The  garden, 
broad  and  open,  afforded  her  no  shelter,  so,  taking 
the  path  recently  traversed  by  Mrs.  Kurd  and  Trip, 
she  ran  down  it  and,  following  the  first  turning,  dis- 
appeared into  a  dense  growth  of  trees  which  sep- 
arated the  garden  from  the  fields  beyond. 

Once  safe  in  that  cool,  dusk  green  refuge,  so  kind 


MRS.    KURD'S    NEXT    MOVE        193 

and  shielding,  her  strength  deserted  her,  her  whole 
body  trembled,  a  mist  swam  before  her  eyes,  her 
knees  gave  way  under  her,  she  stumbled,  almost  re- 
gained her  footing,  and  then  fell  heavily  to  the 
ground.  It  had  required  all  the  effort  of  which  she 
was  capable  to  maintain  her  self-control  before  Mrs. 
Kurd,  and  now,  in  the  moment  of  complete  reaction, 
mental  and  physical,  she  was  bankrupt  of  the  sus- 
taining forces  of  will  and  energy. 

For  a  time,  as  she  lay  there,  her  mind  was  a  blank. 
She  was  conscious  only  of  the  fluttering  of  her 
pulses,  the  throbbing  in  her  ears,  and  then  agitating 
thoughts,  like  dark  clouds  succeeding  dark  clouds, 
began  to  press  upon  her  and  trouble  her  mind. 

What  unbelievable  hints  and  innuendoes  had  Mrs. 
Kurd  been  pouring  into  her  ears!  Aspersions 
against  Anthony?  The  baseless  scandals  of  a  cruel 
and  scheming  woman,  who  saw  evil  everywhere  and 
in  everything!  Why  should  she  have  been  so  af- 
fected by  lies  ?  Lies !  How  foolish  of  her  to  have 
been  so  influenced  by  anything  that  woman  could 
have  said.  No  wonder  that  there  seemed  to  be 
black  clouds  all  about  her,  that  they  seemed  to  suc- 
ceed one  another  in  rolling  masses  before  her  eyes. 


194  SALLY    SALT 

She  would  lift  her  head  above  them  and  breathe  a 
purer  air.  Then  she  fell  back  again  and  moaned  at 
the  quick  needle-thrust,  the  recurring,  piercing  stab 
of  suspicion. 

She  lived  over  again  that  hour  or  two  with  An- 
thony on  the  moonlighted  porch,  the  night  fra- 
grances blown  to  them  on  every  breath  of  wind  and 
the  moonflowers  unfolding  their  white  cups  all  about 
them.  She  recalled  the  amusement,  the  abandon, 
the  inimitable  mimicry  with  which  he  had  told  the 
story  of  the  swindle.  How  perfectly  he  had  por- 
trayed the  sewing-machine  agent!  With  what  as- 
sured strokes  he  had  painted  the  whole  picture ! 

And  she!  What  did  she  really  know  of  him,  of 
his  manner  of  life?  Nothing,  thanks  to  his  peculiar 
reserve  and  the  mystery  in  which  he  enveloped  his 
actions. 

She  pressed  her  hands  to  her  head,  the  battle 
within  rent  and  tore  her,  but  the  gallant  little  army 
of  refutations  and  hopes  and  beliefs  was  gradually 
overcome,  beaten  back  and  put  to  flight  by  the  in- 
creasing hordes  of  thronging  and  sinister  doubts. 
This  cloud  of  witnesses  pressing  about  her  was 


MRS.    KURD'S    NEXT    MOVE        195 

augmented  and  reinforced  until     it      extended  to 
her  furthermost  horizon. 

Worn,  spent,  she  acknowledged  defeat.  It  was 
true !  Oh,  it  was  true !  She  buried  her  face  in  the 
cool,  dark  grass,  and  the  tears  she  wept  blinded  her 
eyes  with  their  torrent  and  scalded  them  with  their 
bitterness. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

TIGHTENING  THE   SCREWS 

EACH  hour  of  the  afternoon  as  it  struck  was  a 
herald  announcing  some  new  revelation  of 
beauty,  the  imperceptible  but  perpetual  shifting  of 
light  ever  giving  new  values  to  the  picture  of 
meadows  and  fields  and  distant  hills,  values  which 
could  only  be  estimated  by  the  rhythmical  markings 
of  time. 

Three  o'clock — the  sun  still  broadly  high,  mid- 
afternoon  at  the  zenith  of  its  golden  opulence, 
earth  in  a  motionless  dream  in  an  enchanted  atmos- 
phere of  strained  honey. 

Four  o'clock — thin  amethyst  hazes  on  the  hills, 
violet  black  shadows  tapering  longer  every  minute 
and  encroaching  further  on  the  sun's  cloth  of  gold. 

Five  o'clock — a  breeze  from  the  river,  the  earth 
draws  long,  awakening  breaths,  the  trees  flutter 
their  leaves  against  a  sun-rayed  background  and 

196 


TIGHTENING   THE    SCREWS        197 

their  shadows  are  as  long  and  pointed  as  if  elms  and 
oaks  and  maples  were  all  firs. 

Six  o'clock — the  hills  are  outlined  with  a  rim  of 
gold,  the  sky  has  changed  from  sapphire  to  pale 
green  and  rose,  the  flowers  lift  up  their  drooping 
heads  to  drink  in  the  indescribable  and  reviving 
freshness  of  the  air,  and  give  out  all  the  richness 
of  their  perfume,  not  that  faint,  evanescent  incense 
with  which  they  welcomed  the  dawn,  but  the  last 
essence  of  fragrance  which  the  burning  sun  has 
drawn  from  their  very  hearts. 

And  all  through  the  glorious  pageant  of  the  hours 
Sally  had  lain  where  she  had  thrown  herself  in  the 
cloister  of  shadow  of  the  encircling  trees,  her  head 
pillowed  on  her  arm.  As  it  neared  sundown  the 
noisy  birds  had  filled  the  branches  and  chattered 
and  flown  back  and  forth,  but  Sally  had  not  even 
turned  her  prone  head  to  look  at  them.  Gradually 
the  long  arrows  of  the  sun,  which  pierced  the  soft, 
green  gloom,  dazzled  over  her  head  and  splintered 
themselves  against  the  tree  trunks  no  longer;  the 
birds  were  quiet,  barely  giving  a  sleepy  twitter  now 
and  then ;  the  sun  sank,  draining  the  world  of  color, 
and  the  dusk  was  dim  in  Sally's  refuge. 


i98  SALLY    SALT 

"Sally,  Sally,"  it  was  not  Lucy  Parrish  this  time, 
but  Streatham,  calling  her  very  softly.  A  quiver  of 
pain  and  apprehension  passed  over  her  and  then  she 
crouched  lower,  hardly  breathing,  praying  that  he 
.might  not  see  her;  but  he  drew  nearer,  continuing 
to  call,  and  presently  entered  the  circle  of  her  con- 
cealing trees. 

Humiliation  surged  over  her,  this  proud  Sally. 
She  was  about  to  be  discovered  in  her  defeated  mo- 
ment, crushed,  beaten  to  earth.  She  could  not  bear 
it,  she,  who  had  always  met  the  foe  with  head  up, 
defiant.  She  was  on  her  feet  in  a  minute,  but  she 
had  lain  so  long  upon  the  ground  that  her  limbs 
were  numb  and  stiff  and  now  she  swayed  slightly 
and  caught  at  the  low-hanging  branch  of  a  tree  for 
momentary  support. 

"Sally !"  Streatham  held  her  close  in  his  arms,  his 
voice  quick  with  ready  sympathy.  "Sally,  what 
is  it?" 

She  fell  limply  against  him.  Here  was  strength 
and  comfort.  Her  whole  sick  heart  and  tired  body 
ached  and  craved  them.  Then  she  repudiated  them 
at  the  price.  She  turned  her  head  aside  and  pushed 
him  from  her. 


TIGHTENING   THE    SCREWS        199 

"Sally,  ah,  Sally,  what  is  it  ?"  His  voice  was  full 
of  the  tenderest  concern. 

But  she  could  only  shake  her  head  mutely,  and 
his  quick  eye,  roving  about,  saw  the  newspaper  on 
the  ground.  He  snatched  it  up,  ran  his  eye  over  the 
columns,  threw  one  glance  at  her  averted  face,  gave 
a  long,  low  whistle  and  then  fell  to  reading  the 
marked  and  head-lined  article  with  undeniable  in- 
tensity and  concentration.  It  was  difficult  to  de- 
cipher the  words  in  the  growing  twilight,  and  he 
stepped  to  a  little  opening  between  the  trees  where 
the  evening  light  fell  more  clearly.  Sally,  feeling 
still  the  necessity  of  support,  had  thrown  an  arm 
about  a  tree  trunk  and  stood  with  her  head  pressed 
against  the  rough  bark,  her  eyes  gazing  listlessly  be- 
fore her. 

Streatham  carefully  read  the  whole  article  to  its 
conclusion  and  then  with  a  shrug  .of  the  shoulders 
looked  at  her  with  a  strained  yet  whimsical  twist  to 
the  mouth.  "So  this  is  what  has  taken  the  color 
out  of  you!  Why,"  drawing  nearer  to  her,  "tears 
have  washed  you  as  white  as  a  ghost.  Why?" 
There  was  a  genuine  surprise  in  his  voice. 
.  There  was  a  faint  return  of  spirit  in  the  way 


200  SALLY    SALT 

Sally's  chin  was  flung  up.  "Isn't  that  enough  to 
make  me  pale?"  she  cried. 

"This!"  He  laughed  contemptuously,  incredu- 
lously, and  struck  the  paper  sharply  with  his  fingers. 
"This?  Why?" 

"Have  you  read  it  through?"  She  stood  free 
from  her  support  now,  her  eyes  fixed  steadily  on  his 
face. 

"Naturally,"  he  returned  coolly,  his  glance  un- 
wavering, but  that  meant  nothing  to  her.  There  re- 
mained with  her  the  stabbing  remembrance  of  other 
direct  glances,  frank  and  free,  given  in  moments  of 
almost  ostensible  concealment,  but  she  did  not  notice 
that  his  smile,  in  spite  of  its  whimsicality,  held  a 
touch  of  pain.  "You  must  have  observed  that  it 
has  very  fully  occupied  my  attention  for  the  last 
five  minutes;  but  you  seem  to  have  discovered  in  it 
something  I  have  overlooked.  What  is  it?"  He 
had  dropped  the  carelessness  of  his  tone;  it  rang 
now  a  sharp  challenge. 

"What  do  I  make  of  it?  Oh,  Anthony,  what's 
the  use?"  Her  voice  broke  in  a  sob.  "What  should 
I  make  of  it  but  one  thing?" 

"Yes,  and  that  one  thing?"    Into  his  glance  there 


TIGHTENING   THE   SCREWS        201 

had  suddenly  flashed  something  acute  and  penetrat- 
ing, something  as  high  and  haughty  as  Sally's  own 
spirit,  that  met  her  on  her  own  ground  and  gave  no 
quarter. 

"Oh,  why  do  you  make  me  explain  what  you 
know  so  well?"  she  cried  impatiently,  resentful  of 
fresh  suffering.  "I  know  now  why  Hilda  Hurd 
came  after  you  the  other  evening,  all  of  a  tremble 
and  frightened  as  a  mouse  which  has  just  managed 
to  escape  the  paw  of  a  cat.  She  had  overheard  this 
whole  affair  of  Grissom  and  the  old  farmer  dis- 
cussed by  Jake  Washburne  and  her  mother,  and  in- 
tent on  warning  Grissom,  she  had  turned  to  you  as 
the  one  person  who  could  help  her.  Naturally,  you 
promised  her  your  assistance  and  late  that  night 
rode  off  to  send  Grissom  a  message." 

"Wise  Sally,  and  quite  correct,  too.  You  are 
even  more  of  a  Sherlock  than  I  thought."  His  voice 
was  gently  bantering.  It  seemed  to  her  that  his  eyes 
were  full  of  sardonic  flickers.  "But  since  all  that 
is  nicely  explained,  what  is  there  in  this  article 
which  has  caused  you  to  suffer  as  you  evidently  have 
been  suffering?"  As  he  said  these  last  words  the 
lightness  faded  from  his  tones,  leaving  only  a  deep 


202  SALLY    SALT 

tenderness,  a  tenderness  which  was.  yet  infused  with 
something  both  stern  and  insistent. 

"How  can  you  ask  me  that ;  I  almost  said,  how 
dare  you?"  she  cried  angrily.  "Did  you  read  the 
description  of  his — his  accomplice?"  The  word 
broke  explosively  from  her  lips. 

He  glanced  down  at  the  paper  again.  "Light 
hair,  blue-gray  eyes,  tall,  um-m-m.  Might  do  for  a 
portrait,  a  newspaper  pen  portrait  of  me,  might  it 
not,  Sally  darling?"  His  whole  face  brimmed  with 
laughter,  his  teasing,  diabolic  mirth  with  its  sugges- 
tions of  audacious  mockery  and  reckless  humor. 

"If  you  laugh  at  me  like  that  I'll— I'll— "  she 
drew  one  quick  breath  and  then  hurled  a  torrent  of 
words  at  him  from  a  choking  throat.  "Do  you 
think  that  I  would  pay  any  attention  to  that  descrip- 
tion, would  even  consider  it  for  a  moment?  Never, 
if  you  had  not  told  me  that  story  the  other  night, 
the  whole  story  that  is  written  out  there  in  full  in 
that  paper.  And,  oh,  Anthony,"  it  was  an  exceed- 
ingly bitter  cry,  "if  you  hadn't  told  it  as  if  you  had 
lived  it  all  before!  I  felt  it  at  the  time.  It  made 
me  restless  and  unhappy.  I  did  not  know  why  then, 
but  I  know  now.  And  I've  been  lying  here  for 


TIGHTENING   THE    SCREWS        203 

hours,  trying  to  find  excuses  for  you,  trying  to  sat- 
isfy myself  with  some  explanation  that  would  really 
explain.  I  tried  to  think  that  truly  you  had  read  the 
story  in  a  newspaper,  and  the  drama  of  it  appealed 
to  you  so  that  you,  being  a  born  actor,  couldn't  help 
acting  it  out ;  but  you  didn't  tell  it  that  way.  That 
explanation  and  the  way  you  told  it  wouldn't  fit. 
And  then  I  tried  to  think  that  Grissom  had  told  you 
about  it  and  that  it  had  so  tickled  that  odd  sense  of 
humor  of  yours  that  you  couldn't  help  telling  me, 
but  I  knew  in  my  heart  all  the  time  that  no  man 
would  tell  another  a  funny  story  which  might  land 
him  in  the  penitentiary.  Oh,  Anthony,"  every  fiber 
of  her  pleaded  with  him,  her  whole  being  hung  on 
the  question,  "how  did  you  know  that  wretched 
story  so  well?" 

In  the  growing  twilight  his  face  looked  strangely 
troubled.  All  of  its  ironical  amusement  had  van- 
ished, his  haggard  face  was  drawn,  his  gaze  melan- 
choly, and,  as  he  continued  to  hold  her  eyes,  a  faint, 
'wistful  smile  crept  about  his  lips.  "Ah,  Sally," 
there  was  a  deep  thrill  of  love  and  tenderness  in  his 
voice,  he  drew  nearer  as  if  he  would  clasp  her  in 
his  arms.  Then  as  she  started  back  and  turned 


204  SALLY    SALT 

from  him,  "Sally,"  sharply,  "you  have  just  asked 
me  what  I  meant,  now  I  ask  you  the  same  question. 
Tell  me,  do  you  really,  really  believe  this  of  me?" 
His  tone  was  harshly  incredulous. 

"What  else  can  I  do?"  she  cried  desperately. 

"Then  you  do  believe  it?"  The  incredulity  deep- 
ened to  sheer  wonder. 

She  twisted  her  hands  together  and  looked  about 
her  with  anguished  eyes,  but  before  she  could  an- 
swer him  his  eyes  fell  again  on  the  newspaper  and 
he  asked  quickly,  "By  the  way,  how  did  you  get  that 
paper?" 

"Mrs.  Kurd  brought  it  to  me."  Her  hesitating 
whisper  was  almost  inaudible. 

"Mrs.  Hurd?"  he  repeated  in  puzzled  incompre- 
hension. "Mrs.  Hurd !  And  why  should  she  ?" 

Two  or  three  minutes  passed  before  Sally  an- 
swered. If  she  told  him  that  Mrs.  Hurd  also  sus- 
pected him,  he  would  probably  see  the  advisability 
of  acknowledging  his  guilt  to  her,  Sally,  and  then 
arrange  some  way  to  keep  the  Hurd  woman's  mouth 
closed,  and  Sally  did  not  want  a  confession  gained 
in  that  way.  She  could  insure  Mrs.  Kurd's  silence 
without  his  intervention. 


TIGHTENING   THE    SCREWS        205 

"Mrs.  Hurd,"  she  said  at  last,  "oh,  she — she 
seemed  bothered  about  losing  Mr.  Grissom  as  a 
boarder." 

He  nodded.  The  explanation  was  quite  adequate. 
At  the  sight  of  the  paper  he  had  a  moment  of 
wonder,  but  his  curiosity,  briefly  acute,  was  easily 
satisfied.  His  mind  returned  at  once  to  a  far  more 
important  theme,  Sally's  attitude  toward  himself. 

A  silence  fell  between  them,  a  silence  which  after 
a  few  minutes  she  felt  unendurable. 

"Oh,  Anthony,"  she  cried  from  her  soul's  depths, 
"if  you  would  only  explain,  if  you  would  only  swear 
to  me." 

"And  I  will  not."  The  words  were  as  crisp  as  if 
clipped  by  a  machine.  All  the  perverseness,  the 
unfathomable  reserve,  the  peculiar  reticence  of 
Streatham  came  to  the  surface.  "I  will  not." 

Sally's  head  went  flinging  up  like  that  of  a  rest- 
less, mettlesome  horse.  "Then  the  sooner  you  go 
the  better." 

Anthony  merely  shrugged  his  shoulders  again  at 
this,  a  shrug  that  was  almost  a  wince,  and  the  little 
smile  that  came  and  then  went,  was  like  a  quick 
grimace  of  pain ;  but  he  said  nothing,  giving  her  time 


206  SALLY    SALT 

for  one  of  her  sudden  repentances.  The  sun  had 
dropped  sharply  behind  the  hills,  the  long,  gray 
shadows  mingled  and  melted  into  twilight. 

Anthony  stepped  across  the  grassy  space  which 
separated  them  and  clasped  Sally's  hands  in  his. 
"You  would  not  turn  me  out,  would  you,  Sally  ?" 

Her  chin  still  up,  her  lips  compressed,  eyelashes 
on  cheek,  she  nodded  mutely. 

Then  she  felt  the  hands  that  held  hers  tremble. 
"You're  turning  me  out  then,  Sally,  out  of  your 
heart  and  your  home.  Is  it  true,  is  it  possible  ?" 

"I  begged  you,  Anthony,  I  beg  you  again  to  prove 
your  innocence."  The  words  came  with  difficulty, 
as  if  from  a  parched  throat. 

"I  would  never  have  called  you  a  faithless  gen- 
eration, Sally,  seeking  a  sign."  Beneath  his  half- 
jesting  words  was  a  reproach  so  deep  that  it  lost 
itself  in  wonder.  "It  isn't  true,"  he  whispered,  after 
a  moment's  silence.  "It  isn't  true."  He  affirmed  it 
more  strongly,  lifting  his  drawn  face  to  the  pale 
opal  of  the  sky.  "Sally  fail  me!  Sally  fail  any 
one!  Never." 

"I  only  ask  such  a  little  thing,  Anthony."  Her 
speech  was  hoarse  and  broken,  she  could  barely 


TIGHTENING   THE    SCREWS        207 

form  the  words.  "I  only  beg  you  to  prove  to  me — " 
she  could  go  no  further,  her  throat  felt  paralyzed. 

Streatham  did  not  answer  and  again  silence  fell 
between  them.  At  last  it  was  broken  by  him.  "She's 
turned  me  off,"  he  whispered  stammeringly,  "so 
there's  nothing  to  do  but  go."  He  started  a  pace  or 
two  and  then  turning,  caught  her  tightly  in  his  arms. 
"Darling  Sally,  Sally  of  my  heart!"  He  pressed 
his  cheek  against  hers  and  kissed  again  and  again 
the  loose,  waving  hair  about  her  brow. 

"I  know  what  I  am,  worse  even  than  you  think 
me,  Sally,  but  you  are  not  hard  and  cold  and  sus- 
picious, and  it's  a  lie  if  you  seem  so.  You  are  warm 
and  sweet  and  loving  to  the  core,  and  it's  a  lie  if 
you  seem  otherwise.  Do  you  think  that  you  are 
really  driving  me  off,  Sally?  Never,  I  will  never 
admit  it.  I'm  going  because  I  choose  to  go."  He 
kissed  her  again,  her  eyelids,  her  mouth,  her  hair. 
"Then  good-by.  I'm  leaving  you,  remember. 
Good-by.  When  you  write  and  tell  me  that  you, 
too,  know  that  you  never  doubted  me,  never  asked 
for  a  sign,  then  I'll  come  back  to  you ;  across  the 
sea,  across  the  world,  back  from  hell  to  you,  Sally." 

He  loosed  his  arms  and  abruptly  left  her.     She 


208  SALLY    SALT 

heard  the  crackle  of  little  dry  twigs  under  his  feet, 
the  sound  growing  fainter  as  he  went  steadily  on, 
and  Sally  listened  with  strained  and  unbelieving 
ears.  It  wasn't  true.  It  couldn't  be.  In  a  moment 
he  would  turn  those  dear,  individual,  gray  shoulders 
and  come  back  to  her  and  tell  her  that  it  was  all  a 
phase  of  nightmare,  the  hideous  delusion  of  a  hide- 
ous dream. 

So  she  waited;  the  brief,  gray  hour  of  twilight 
waned  and  night  closed  about  her,  black  and  hot 
and  breathless.  Then  the  wind  began  to  blow,  long 
gusts  from  the  river,  laden  with  all  the  lush  rank 
smell  of  the  weeds,  the  strange  musk  of  the  tasseled 
corn. 

At  last,  some  half-conscious  impulse  urged  her  to 
go  home.  The  porch  was  deserted,  the  creak  of 
Mrs.  Nesbit's  rocking-chair  was  silenced.  She  had 
gone  to  bed.  The  flutter  of  Lucy  Parrish's  white 
gown  might  be  seen  in  the  garden,  but  Anne,  like 
Mrs.  Nesbit,  had  retired.  There  was,  however,  a 
figure  in  black,  calm,  patient  as  fate,  sitting  on  the 
steps,  and  curled  at  her  feet  something  that  re- 
sembled a  motionless  black  mat,  but  which  stirred 
and  growled  deeply  in  its  throat  as  Sally  drew  near. 


TIGHTENING   THE    SCREWS        209 

"Good  evening,  Mrs.  Salt."  Mrs.  Hurd  rose  to 
her  feet.  "I  have  been  waiting  some  time,  but  then," 
meekly,  "I  haven't  minded  that.  It's  been  a  rest 
to  me." 

"Has  it?"  said  Sally  dully.  "Well,  what  do  you 
want  now?" 

"The  same  little  matter  we  were  talking  about  at 
noon,  Mrs.  Salt.  I'm  sorry  to  hurry  you,  but  things 
have  got  to  be  settled  quick.  If  Jake  has  got  to  be 
told,  it  must  be  at  once." 

"I  suppose  so,"  returned  Sally,  more  dully  still, 
and  dimly  wondering  why  it  was  so  hard  to  form 
sentences,  and  why  her  voice,  like  her  feet,  seemed 
to  stumble.  "How  much  do  you  want  ?" 

"Five  hund — "  began  Mrs.  Hurd,  and  then  see- 
ing Sally's  condition  of  absolute  mental  apathy, 
quickly  changed  and  pressed  her  advantage.  "A 
thousand,"  she  said  smoothly. 

"Very  well,  I'll  give  you  a  check  to-morrow." 
Sally  passed  on  into  the  houses 


BESIDE    THE    POPPY   TENTS 

MRS.  NESBIT  clutched  Lucy  Parrish's  frock 
as  that  nimble- footed  young  woman  ran 
across  the  porch.  Lucy  represented  motion  to  her, 
she  was  always  fleeing  some  one  of  Mrs.  Nesbit's 
little  group,  Mrs.  Hill  or  Mrs.  Potter  or  Anne, 
Anne,  who  was  willing  to  sit  all  day  long  on  the 
porch  and  showed  no  disposition  to  philander,  as 
Mrs.  Nesbit  expressed  it. 

"Lucy,"  quavered  the  little  woman,  holding  her 
captive  firmly  by  the  skirt,  "don't  always  be  in  such 
a  hurry.  A  rolling  stone  gathers  no  moss,  'mem- 
ber." 

"I  do  not  want  to  gather  moss,"  said  Lucy  with 
a  grimace,  "I  want  to  gather  roses  while  I  may,  for 
time  is  still  a-flying.  'Gather  ye  rose-buds  while 
ye  may,'  "  she  sang,  and  Witherspoon,  hearing  her 
clear,  joyous  voice,  high  and  lilting  as  a  bird's, 

210 

\ 


BESIDE    THE    POPPY   TENTS       211 

turned  in  his  meditative  pacing  and  awaited  her, 
standing  with  folded  arms  in  the  flower-bright  glory 
of  the  garden,  but  although  Lucy's  feet  danced  a 
restless  measure,  Mrs.  Nesbit  did  not  relax  her 
clutch. 

"Lucy,"  she  continued  in  a  loud  whisper,  "there's 
several  things  I  got  to  talk  to  you  about  and  I  got 
to  talk  them  out  right  now." 

"But  dear  Mrs.  Nesbit,  I  haven't  a  minute," 
coaxed  Lucy,  casting  a  glance  of  compunction  at 
the  patient  figure  of  Witherspoon.  Had  he  not 
paced  every  path  of  the  garden  a  hundred  times 
within  the  last  half — three-quarters  of  an  hour, 
while  she  had  been  trying  this  and  that  effect  in  hair 
dressing?  Then  there  was  the  changing  of  a  rose 
gown  for  a  blue,  and  after  viewing  that  in  the  mir- 
ror— viewing  it !  Rather,  bringing  the  most  com- 
prehensive study  to  bear  on  it  from  every  angle, 
only  to  discard  it  for  a  white  frock.  Next  the  ques- 
tion of  the  proper  ornaments  had  occupied  her  un- 
divided attention,  and  she  had  seen  her  couch  strewn 
with  a  dozen  hats  before  finally  selecting  one. 

"Lucy,  child,"  Mrs.  Nesbit's  voice  was  placating, 
the  honeyed,  intimate  tones  of  one  about  to  bespeak 


212  SALLY   SALT 

the  good  offices  of  another,  "now,  Lucy,  you  see — 
my!"  breaking  off  in  artless  admiration,  "how 
pretty  you  do  look,  child !"  Then  becoming  alarmed 
at  her  prisoner's  growing  impatience,  "You  see, 
Lucy,  Hetty  Hill,  she's  just  been  here  and  she's 
portioning  out  the  donations  for  the  festival  that 
our  church  is  having  next  week,  and  she  thinks  I 
ought  to  give  more  than  any  other  lady,  just  because 
I  live  with  Sally,  and,"  lowering  her  voice  and 
throwing  a  careful  glance  about  her,  "she  scolded 
me  something  awful,  oh,  something  awful,  Lucy, 
because  I  hadn't  told  Sally  how  folks  were  talking 
because  Anthony  Streatham  had  been  seen  walking 
with  his  arm  around  Hilda  Hurd  the  other  night. 
And  she  frightened  me  so,  Lucy,  that  what  do  you 
think  I  did?" 

Lucy  filled  up  a  doleful  pause  by  properly  ask- 
ing, "What?" 

Mrs.  Nesbit  carefully  unfolded  a  clean  handker- 
chief and  wiped  her  faded  eyes.  "I  got  all  rattled, 
and  I  first  told  Sally  about  how  folks  were  talking 
about  Anthony  and  Hilda,  and  then  I  told  her  what 
Hetty  Hill  had  said  about  my  contribution  to  the 
festival.  And  Sally!"  Mrs.  Nesbit  lifted  her  hands 


BESIDE   THE    POPPY   TENTS       213 

and  solemnly  shook  her  head  back  and  forth,  "my 
land,  Lucy!  Sally  just  carried  on  high,  said  she 
wouldn't  have  Aunt  Mandy  baking  up  cakes  for 
two  or  three  days  for  a  lot  of  scandal  mongers  to 
eat.  That  they  could  whistle  for  their  donations 
and  that  the  devil  could  fly  away  with  Mrs.  Hill, 
only  he  wouldn't  because  he  didn't  want  any  rivals 
and  she  was  a  bigger  mischief-maker  than  himself. 
Oh,  'twas  awful ! 

"Why,  Lucy,  Sally  don't  seem  to  see  how  that  sets 
me  in  others'  eyes.  It's  like  making  me  an  object 
of  charity.  Of  course,  folks  know  I  consent  to  live 
with  Sally  on  account  of  my  son,  and,  as  more  than 
one  has  said  to  me,  that  Sally  Salt  can't  begin  to 
calkilate  what  my  blameless  life  and  standing  in  the 
church  has  done  for  her,  acting  any  way  she's  a 
mind  to  and  at  any  time  she's  a  mind  to.  Of 
course,"  sniffing  once  or  twice,  "folks  know  'way 
back  in  their  minds  that  it's  Aunt  Mandy  that  bakes 
the  cakes,  and  that  it's  Sally's  flour  and  eggs  and 
sugar  that  goes  into  them,  but  they  never  remember 
those  things  unless  they're  thrown  in  their  faces. 

"And  the  worst  is,  Lucy,  that  Hetty  Hill  is  com- 
ing back  here  this  afternoon  to  see  what  I'll  give, 


214  SALLY    SALT 

and  unless  something's  done  quick,  I  got  to  tell  her 
that  Sally  won't  allow  me  to  donate  anything;  and 
then,"  in  a  rising  wail,  "folks  will  know  for  sure 
that  I  can't  go  into  the  kitchen  and  tell  that  high- 
handed, worthless  Aunt  Mandy  to  bake  cakes  for 
me,  that  she  won't  take  her  orders  from  me,  and 
me  a  Hoskins."  Again  she  shook  out  the  careful 
folds  of  her  handkerchief  and  applied  it  to  her  eyes. 
"And  her  a  coon,"  she  added  as  an  afterthought. 

Anne,  who  had  been  reading  in  a  shaded  corner 
at  the  far  end  of  the  porch,  had  sauntered  nearer, 
the  better  to  hear,  and  now,  after  thrusting  one 
finger  in  the  large,  statistical-looking  volume  she 
carried  to  mark  the  place,  she  voiced  her  opinion 
before  Lucy  could  get  in  a  word. 

"It  does  seem  hard,"  she  said  with  a  sort  of  di- 
dactic sympathy,  "and  I  think  that  you,  Mrs.  Nes- 
bit,  did  quite  right.  Painful  as  she  may  find  this 
horrid  matter  of  Mr.  Streatham  and  Hilda  Hurd,  it 
is  better  that  Mrs.  Salt  should  know  it." 

"Bosh!"  Lucy  commented  explosively.  "The 
idea  of  that  old  wretch  of  a  Mrs.  Hill  trying  to 
make  a  mountain  out  of  a  mole-hill,  and  you  and 
Mrs.  Nesbit  aiding  and  abetting  her.  Mr.  Streat- 


BESIDE ,  THE    POPPY   TENTS       215 

ham  never  had  his  arm  within  a  mile  of  Hilda  Kurd, 
unless  he  picked  her  up  when  she  fell  down." 

Anne  lifted  her  brows  with  a  faint,  incredulous 
smile.  "But  is  it  a  mole-hill,  my  dear  Aunt  Lucy  ?" 
She  always  argued  firmly  but  pleasantly.  "Are  you 
not  looking  at  the  matter  from,  a  rather  prejudiced 
as  well  as  from  a  lax  moral  standpoint?  Is  it  not, 
after  all,  a  matter  that  Mrs.  Salt  should  know,  and, 
having  been  informed,  most  tactfully,  I  am  sure, 
was  it  either  kind  or  generous  of  her  to  take  the  at- 
titude she  has  on  this  matter  of  the  donation?" 

"For  heaven's  sake,  Anne,"  began  Lucy,  and  then 
stopped,  wisely  remembering  that  Anne  was  not 
only  capable  of  spending  a  whole  day  in  the  discus- 
sion of  some  perfectly  trivial  matter,  but  quite  will- 
ing to  do  so,  so  avoiding  danger,  she  turned  to  the 
small,  woeful  figure  in  the  chair  and  gave  her  an 
admonishing,  comforting  pat  on  the  shoulder.  "Now, 
Mrs.  Nesbit,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  every- 
thing will  be  all  right.  Stop  worrying  at  once.  You 
will  have  all  the  cakes  you  want,  and  you  can  prom- 
ise just  as  many  as  you  please  to  Mrs.  Hill  when 
she  comes  spying  around  again.  Oh,  I  must  go!" 
and  stirred  to  fresh  compunction  by  another  glance 


216  SALLY    SALT 

at  Witherspoon's  waiting  and  ever-patient  figure, 
she  flew  down  the  steps  around  a  turn  in  the  path 
and  into  Sally's  arms. 

And  Sally  was  pale  under  all  her  tan,  and  about 
all  the  upward  curves  of  her  laughing,  reckless 
mouth  were  tiny  lines,  the  etchings  of  pain,  but  her 
head  was  carried  as  proudly  high  and  her  blue  eyes 
were  as  undaunted  as  ever. 

"I  was  coming  to  rescue  you,  child.  I  saw  that 
Mrs.  Nesbit  was  deep  in  her  tale  of  woe.  It  was 
the  cakes,  I  suppose?  Ridiculous!"  in  answer  to 
Lucy's  nod.  "She  knows  that  she  can  have  all  the 
cakes  she  wants  and  that  she  is  going  to  have  them. 
I  wonder  why  poor  little  lost  cats  like  Nesbit  like 
to  imagine  themselves  more  wretched  and  mal- 
treated than  they  are  ?  There  seems  to  be  some  law 
about  it.  They  love  to  lap  up  a  saucer  of  cream 
and  then  lie  on  the  warm  hearth  and  luxuriously 
picture  the  back  fence  in  sleet  and  snow  as  an  ever- 
present  possibility." 

"Oh,  I  do  not  mind  her,  it's  Anne,"  said  Lucy  im- 
patiently. 

"Anne !  Oh,  Anne  would  stir  up  the  angels  them- 
selves in  no  time.  Poor  Anne,  she  hasn't  learned 


BESIDE   THE    POPPY   TENTS       217 

that  the  kingdom  of  heaven  is  more  a  matter  of  dis- 
position than  morals.  And  some  of  us  know  it  and 
can't  act  on  it." 

"The  kingdom  of  heaven!"  repeated  Lucy  dream- 
ily, "I  wonder  if  it  isn't  down  there  in  the  garden. 
Look,  Sally,  how  the  great,  wide,  happy  sun  shines 
on  the  little,  lovely,  happy  flowers !" 

"It's  never  lo,  here,  or  lo,  there,  Lucy,  though  it 
sometimes  seems  so.  It's  always  right  here,  in  our 
hearts,  love  and  peace  and  joy  and  forgiveness,  and 
some  of  us  can't  forgive."  It  was  the  first  time 
Lucy  had  ever  heard  even  a  tinge  of  bitterness  in 
Sally's  tone. 

"How  can  you  love  a  piece  of  furniture?"  Lucy 
was  still  petulant.  "Anne  has  about  as  much  life 
and  emotion  as  a — a — chair.  That  is  it.  She  is 
just  like  a  chair.  She  sits  up  perfectly  straight  and 
is  nicely  varnished  and  you  can  not  forget  that  she 
is  always  there.  And  she  has  a  chair's  irritating 
way  of  always  planting  herself  right  in  your  path, 
so  that  you  can  not  fail  to  stumble  over  it.  Calling 
me  'aunt,'  indeed!" 

"Well,  here  is  John  Witherspoon.  Tell  him  all 
about  it,"  laughed  Sally.  "He  won't  call  you  'aunt* 


218  SALLY    SALT 

or  'sister'  or  anything  irritating,  I  know;  but  dear 
me,  I've  no  time  to  be  pottering  about  here  with  you 
two  when  I  should  be  in  half  a  dozen  different 
places." 

She  turned  away,  walking  without  apparent  haste 
and  yet  covering  the  ground  very  quickly  with  her 
long,  swinging  stride.  And  Lucy  and  Witherspoon, 
following  their  idle  mood,  wandered  farther  into 
the  mazes  of  the  garden,  down  to  the  sun-warmed 
courts  of  color  where  the  poppies  were  spreading 
their  scarlet  and  white  and  pink  tents  of  a  day. 
Their  petals,  like  silken  banners  proclaiming  the 
presence  of  the  dark  nepenthe  at  their  hearts ;  occa- 
sionally, loosened  by  the  soft,  midsummer  wind, 
these  fluttered  in  the  air  a  moment  and  then  fell  to 
the  ground,  eternal  symbols  of  the  brilliant  dreams 
which  float  on  the  tide  of  sleep. 

"They  last  such  a  little  while,  such  a  little  day," 
sighed  Lucy.  "Ah,  why  must  everything  beautiful 
be  so  brief — youth  and  love  and  romance?" 

"You  are  wrong,  Lucy,"  said  Witherspoon  slowly. 
"To  have  seen  the  glamour,  to  have  felt  the  beauty, 
that  is  eternal,  that  is  the  real  romance." 

"It  seems  to  me  that  some  of  the  real  romance  has 


BESIDE   THE    POPPY   TENTS       219 

gone,"  said  Lucy  slowly,  "and  Sally  will  not  let  me 
sympathize  with  her  for  a  minute.  I  do  not  dare 
assume  that  there  is  anything  out  of  the  ordinary 
in  Mr.  Streatham  rushing  off  like  this,  and  I  know 
that  she  will  never  tell  me  what  has  come  between 
them." 

Witherspoon  did  not  seem  especially  affected  by 
her  emotion,  a  fact  which  caused  Lucy  a  rather 
pouting  surprise.  "Sally  didn't  say  good-by  to  him. 
She  was  not  even  in  the  house  when  he  left,  and 
yet,  and  yet  I  know  that  she  feels  it  all  dreadfully." 

Witherspoon  pondered  for  a  time,  gazing  at  her 
earnestly  the  while.  "Lucy,"  he  said  finally,  "do 
you  not  think  a  secret,  a  real  secret  between  you  and 
me,  would  add  zest  to  the  romance?" 

Lucy  clapped  her  hands  delightedly.  "It  is  just, 
just  what  we  need.  Whoever  heard  of  a  romance 
without  the  accompanying  secret?  Oh,  do  you 
really  know  one?" 

"Indeed,  I  do,  but  I'm  wondering  whether  I  ought 
to  let  this  tyrannical  romance  dictate  to  me.  I'm 
wondering  whether  I  have  any  right  to  tell  you." 
He  spoke  so  seriously  that  Lucy's  curiosity  was 
Stirred  to  the  depths. 


220  SALLY    SALT 

"But,"  she  argued  quickly,  "isn't  it  your  first 
duty  to  be  true  to  the  romance?  Do  you  think  it  is 
fair  to  evade  any  of  its  responsibilities  or  to  break 
even  the  least  of  the  rules  of  the  game  after  you 
have  solemnly  undertaken  them?" 

"This  is  a  more  serious  matter,"  he  contended. 
"I  doubt  very  much  and  yet — " 

Lucy  ceased  to  argue.  "Please,"  she  coaxed,  her 
hand  on  his  sleeve,  "I've  an  ambition.  I  want  to 
show  you  how  beautifully  I  can  keep  a  secret." 

And  Witherspoon,  perhaps  over-ready  Wither- 
spoon,  capitulated.  "Lucy,  I  fear  that  I'm  a  poor 
old  dotard  of  a  Don  Quixote,  but  I  can  not  resist 
my  Dulcinea." 

"Lucy  Parrish  and  John  Witherspoon  must  have 
something  awful  important  to  talk  about,"  an- 
nounced Mrs.  Nesbit  from  her  rocking-chair  half 
an  hour  later.  "They  been  walking  up  and  down, 
up  and  down,  with  their  heads  together  like  they 
was  planning  a  murder  or  an  elopement." 


CHAPTER  XV 

WHISPERS   AND   GLIMPSES 

IT  was  Friday,  the  day  upon  which  Grissom  had 
said  he  would  return.  Since  early  morning, 
Mrs.  Kurd  had  watched  and  waited  for  him,  and 
now  it  was  evening,  and  she  sat,  as  usual  after  her 
day's  work,  in  her  chair  on  the  porch.  Trip  was  in 
his  customary  place  at  her  feet,  his  head  on  his  out- 
stretched paws,  his  eyes  brooding,  watchful.  Hilda, 
as  was  her  wont,  after  sundown,  watered  her  flow- 
ers, crooning  one  of  her  low  little  songs  as  she  did 
so,  and  Mr.  Hurd  tramped  up  and  down  the  road 
before  the  house,  oblivious  of  its  clouds  of  dust,  his 
face  uplifted  to  the  sky. 

For  once  Mrs.  Kurd's  face  showed  some  expres- 
sion. It  was  pale  and  slightly  drawn  and  her  eyes 
had  a  curious,  eager  stare  as  she  continually  watched 
the  road.  Where  was  Grissom?  Oh,  where  was 
Grissom?  And,  since  the  last  train  had  passed  ten 
minutes  ago  and  Grissom  had  not  appeared,  where 

221 


222  SALLY    SALT 

was  Washburne?  She  tried  to  nurse  the  hope  that 
the  sheriff  had  intercepted  his  man  farther  up  the 
road,  but  she  had  little  belief  in  this  possibility.  For 
the  first  time  in  her  remembrance  she  could  not  com- 
pose herself  at  will  to  her  motionless  and  emotion- 
less calm  and  await  with  patience  the  course  of 
events. 

Trip,  too,  seemed  to  feel  the  influence  of  her  anx- 
ious spirit,  for  he  began  to  stir  about,  now  rising, 
turning  himself  in  the  smallest  possible  space  and 
down  at  her  feet  again.  A  moment's  apparent  sleep, 
then  he  would  lift  his  head  suddenly,  his  nose 
twitching,  and  get  up  to  choose  another  spot,  not 
two  feet  away. 

At  last  the  woman  so  grimly  waiting  started  for- 
ward and  lifted  her  hand  to  shield  her  eyes.  Was 
it?  No.  Yes,  it  was  Washburne.  It  was  difficult 
to  be  quite  sure  at  once,  because  of  the  sunset  dazzle 
behind  him,  but  convinced  that  it  was  really  he,  Mrs. 
Hurd  was  quick  in  action. 

"Hilda,"  she  called,  "Hilda,"  and  as  the  girl  came 
near,  watering  pot  in  hand,  "I  wish  you  would  go 
over  to  Mrs.  Hill's  and  get  me  a  quart  of  new  milk, 
and  go  the  back  way,  Hilda." 


WHISPERS    AND    GLIMPSES        223 

"Yes,  mother."  Hilda,  too,  must  have  seen  the 
approaching  visitor,  for  she  vanished  about  the 
house  with  an  almost  incredible  rapidity,  just  before 
she  disappeared,  casting  a  frightened  glance  at 
Washburne,  who  was  at  that  moment  passing 
through  the  gate.  But  her  exceeding  alacrity  to  do 
her  mother's  bidding  was  unnecessary.  He  did  not 
see  her.  His  manner  was  preoccupied,  his  head 
bent;  he  brushed  against  Mr.  Hurd  at  the  gate  and 
barely  stopped  to  speak  to  him. 

"Howdy,  Mrs.  Hurd  ?"  he  said  surlily  as  he  drew 
near  the  porch.  She  had  risen  as  had  Trip  also,  and 
both  stood  awaiting  him  with  somber,  asking  eyes. 

"Where  is  he,  Jake?"  Her  tones  were  tense  with 
anxiety. 

"I  don't  know,"  gruffly,  sitting  down  heavily  on 
the  step  of  the  porch  and  drawing  a  cigar  from  his 
pocket.  "I  got  one  comfort,  though,"  with  a  burst 
of  coarse,  unmirthful  laughter.  "I  know  that  you 
don't  know  anything  more  about  him  than  I  do." 

"That's  God's  truth,  Jake." 

"Oh,  it  ain't  because  you  tell  me  so  that  I  believe 
you,  but  because  I've  got  the  means  of  knowing," 
he  replied  with  indifferent  brutality.  "Well,"  at- 


224  SALLY    SALT 

tempting  to  view  the  matter  philosophically,  "I  sup- 
pose it's  a  case  of  his  waiting  over  a  day  or  so  for 
some  reason  or  other.  No  use  our  getting  discour- 
aged yet-  There's  only  one  chance  in  a  million  of 
his  having  got  wind  of  anything.  He'll  be  along 
yet,  you'll  see." 

"I  suppose  so,"  she  agreed,  "but  it's  kind  of  dis- 
appointing." 

"Yes,"  he  assented,  lighting  his  cigar  and  then 
grinding  the  charred  match  viciously  into  the 
ground  with  his  heel,  "you  bet  it  is." 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  minutes,  then  he 
glanced  about  him. 

"Where's  Hilda?" 

"I  sent  her  over  to  Mrs.  Hill's  on  an  errand  when 
I  saw  you  coming.  You'll  wait,  won't  you  ?" 

"Might  as  well.  Nothing  else  to  do,"  moodily. 
"Well,"  blowing  out  a  great  cloud  of  smoke  and 
watching  it  float  away  in  long  spirals,  "you  been 
visiting  Sally  Salt  considerable  in  the  last  day  or 
two,  haven't  you?  I  didn't  know  that  you  and  she 
were  so  thick." 

She  shot  a  quick,  keen  glance  at  him  and  slightly 
compressed  her  lips,  but  it  took  more  than  that  to 


WHISPERS    AND    GLIMPSES        225 

shake  her  iron  self-control.  It  was  a  second  or  two 
before  she  Answered  him,  and  then  she  spoke  care- 
lessly enough. 

"Didn't  you?  Oh,  me  and  Mrs.  Salt  have  always 
been  good  friends.  She's  kind  of  keen  on  Harris, 
wants  to  adopt  him  and  all  that." 

"Uh-huh,"  he  responded  uninterestedly ;  his  curi- 
osity, not  his  suspicions  had  been  stirred,  and  the 
former  emotion  was  easily  allayed.  "Well,"  his 
mind  returning  to  the  one  theme  which  occupied  it, 
"there's  nothing  to  do  but  wait,  I  guess." 

For  a  time  they  sat  without  further  speech,  he, 
leaning  inertly  against  the  unpainted  pillar  of  the 
porch,  smoking  and  watching  with  knitted  brows  the 
smoke  wreaths  waver  and  shift  about  him,  and  she, 
swinging  back  and  forth  in  her  rocking-chair  and 
gazing  steadily  before  her  with  her  brooding,  con- 
centrated gaze. 

At  last,  across  the  silence  of  the  twilight  there 
swelled  the  rising  and  falling  cadences  of  Hilda's 
'singing.  Clear  as  the  call  of  a  lark,  fresh  and  pure 
as  a  mountain  spring,  it  poured  out  as  unconsciously 
and  naturally  as  a  bird's  song,  and  Washburne  lifted 
his  head  to  listen. 


226  SALLY    SALT 

"Say,  ain't  that  pretty,"  he  said  with  the  largest 
measure  of  animation  that  he  could  compass.  "I 
never  heard  anything  just  like  it." 

Mrs.  Kurd  looked  at  him  incredulously  and  then 
with  a  certain  slow  contempt,  "I  don't  see  anything 
very  remarkable  in  it,"  she  said.  "There's  folks 
goes  raving  over  Hilda's  singing.  I  guess  they 
wouldn't  if  they  had  to  hear  as  much  of  it  as  I  do. 
Well,"  rising,  "I'll  be  going  in,  now  she's  here  to 
entertain  you.  Let  me  know  the  minute  you  hear 
anything,  Jake." 

"All  right.    Howdy,  Hilda?" 

The  girl  returned  his  greeting  listlessly.  Her 
singing  had  ceased  and  her  step  had  lagged  at  the 
sight  of  him,  but  although  his  eyes  had  been  upon 
her  from  the  moment  she  had  entered  the  garden 
gate,  these  signs  of  the  esteem  in  which  she  held  him 
conveyed  nothing  to  his  slow  intelligence  and  dull 
sensibilities,  occupied  solely  with  the  esteem  in 
which  he  held  her,  and  the  desire  of  possession 
which  her  wind-flower  grace  a'roused  in  him. 
Neither  did  he  notice  that  she  sat  down  as  far  away 
from  him  as  the  narrow  limits  of  the  porch  per- 
mitted. 


WHISPERS    AND    GLIMPSES        227 

"It's  a  nice  evening,"  she  said.  There  was  a  sort 
of  timid  and  resigned  patience  in  both  face  and 
voice,  as  if  she  shrank  from  even  a  mental  contact 
with  him,  but  since  it  must  be,  she  bore  it  with  what 
grace  of  fortitude  she  could  command. 

"Sort  of,"  he  replied.  "Say,  Hilda,"  bending 
nearer  and  taking  the  cigar  from  his  mouth,  "I  don't 
want  to  talk  to  you  about  weather  and  things  like 
that.  I  guess  you  understand  that  by  this  time;  if 
you  don't  you  ought  to,"  with  a  short  laugh.  "Of 
course,  I  know  that  you've  got  a  kind  of  a  shy  dis- 
position and  all  that,  and  I've  always  respected  it, 
haven't  I?  But  the  time's  come  for  you  to  know,  if 
you  don't  already  know,  how  much  I  think  of  you. 
Well,  now  don't  you  be  getting  frightened  and  try- 
ing to  run  away,"  he  caught  her  hand  as  she  half 
rose.  "And  it  ain't  any  use  trying  to  put  me  off  any 
longer,  either,"  in  answer  to  her  faint,  confused 
protests.  "You  know  how  long  I've  been  thinking 
of  you.  Now,  I  want  you  to  marry  me,  Hilda,  and 
marry  me  soon.  What's  the  use  of  waiting  any 
longer?" 

He  laid  his  hand  over  hers  and  Hilda  winced  and 
shrank  visibly  as  she  shook  it  off. 


228  SALLY    SALT 

"I — I — couldn't,  Jake."  She  had  drawn  almost 
shudderingly  away  from  him,  her  face  pale,  her  eyes 
dilating.  "I  couldn't." 

"You  mean  that  you  want  more  time  ?" 

"It  isn't,  it  isn't  just  that,"  her  voice  was  so  low 
and  trembling  that  he  bent  nearer  to  hear  her,  "it's 
that  I  can't  marry  you  at  all,  Jake." 

"Why  not?"  he  asked  harshly. 

"Because  I  just  don't — don't  love  you." 

"I  guess  you  mean  you  don't  know  your  own 
mind."  He  strove  to  speak  easily,  but  disappoint- 
ment grated  through  his  tones.  "You're  pretty 
young  yet." 

"No,  no,"  she  was  all  eagerness  now,  and  leaned 
forward,  anxious  to  make  herself  clear.  "I  do  know 
my  own  mind,  but — "  she  stopped  abruptly. 

"You  only  think  you  do,"  he  replied.  "I  guess 
that's  it.  Why,  Hilda,  I  don't  want  to  brag,  but 
what  are  you  looking  for?  I  know  girls  get  fool 
notions  into  their  heads,  but  I  don't  see  for  the  life 
of  me  what  you  want."  There  was  a  masculine 
wonder  in  his  tones.  "I'm  well  to  do,  Hilda,  well 
fixed  in  the  world.  You  won't  have  to  drudge  and 
slave  if  you  marry  me.  No,  sir,  I  don't  want  that 


WHISPERS   AND   GLIMPSES        229 

kind  of  a  wife.  You  can  have  your  hired  girl  and 
your  silk  dresses  and  we'll  take  a  trip  now  and  then. 
Hmmm,"  looking  up  contemptuously  at  the  small 
house.  "You  certainly  ain't  got  much  here,  nor," 
with  an  equally  scornful  glance  at  Mr.  Hurd,  who 
was  still  pacing  up  and  down  the  road,  "you  ain't 
got  much  to  look  forward  to.  Come  on,  Hilda," 
bending  still  nearer  and  coaxing  her  as  one  would  a 
child.  "You  couldn't  do  better.  I'm  something 
of  a  catch.  Why,"  throwing  out  his  chest  and 
speaking  with  robust  conceit,  "there  ain't  a  girl  in 
this  county  and  several  others  who  wouldn't  pretty 
near  jump  out  of  her  skin  at  the  thought  of  getting 
me.  And  I'm  mighty  fond  of  you,  Hilda.  Don't 
you  make  any  mistake  about  that,  little  girl.  Here," 
his  face  close  to  hers,  "lift  up  that  pretty  head  of 
yours  and  give  me  a  kiss  and  we'll  call  it  a  bargain." 

But  Hilda  shrank  still  farther  away  from  him 
and  burying  her  face  in  her  hands,  fell  to  weeping. 
"I  don't  want  to  marry  you,"  she  cried.  "Oh,  why 
won't  you  understand  ?  I  don't  want  to  marry  any 
one."  Her  words  were  almost  inaudible  because  of 
her  sobs. 

With  a  muttered  exclamation,  Washburne  turned 


230  SALLY    SALT 

from  her  and  sat  savagely  chewing  the  end  of  his 
cigar  and  gazing  before  him  in  a  state  of  somber 
irritation,  but  gradually  his  expression  cleared. 
That  any  one  could  seriously  reject  him,  such  an 
ona  as  Hilda,  at  any  rate,  was.  out  of  the  question, 
beyond  belief;  and,  as  he  continued  to  view  the 
matter  from  this  standpoint,  his  perplexity  gradu- 
ally gave  way  to  tenderness. 

"There,  there,  little  girl,  there's  nothing  to  cry 
about,  Lord  knows.  'Cause  you  don't  want  to 
marry  anybody,  or  you  think  you  don't.  That's 
the  girl  of  it.  Now,  there  ain't  any  hurry,  Hilda, 
nobody  is  going  to  hurry  you.  And  I  want  you  to 
remember  this,  your  ma's  got  no  say  in  the  matter, 
so  you  don't  have  to  pay  a  mite  of  attention  to  any- 
thing she  says.  All  you  got  to  do,  Hilda,  is  to  know 
that  I'm  behind  you.  So  it's  a  bargain.  You  ain't 
going  to  be  worried  or  bothered  about  it,  but  when 
we  get  good  and  ready,  you  and  I  are  going  to  get 
married,  and,  in  the  meantime,"  with  a  smile  of  con- 
scious self-appreciation  as  the  result  of  his  diplo- 
macy, "we'll  kind  of  begin  to  make  plans  about  the 
new  house  I'm  going  to  build  before  long.  None  of 
your  cheap  little  shanties,"  with  another  contemptu- 


WHISPERS    AND    GLIMPSES        231 

ous  glance  at  Hilda's  home,  "but  a  fine,  substantial 
house." 

She  lifted  her  tear-wet  face  desperately  to  his. 
"Oh,  Jake,  you  must  understand.  I  can  not  ever 
marry  you,"  she  cried. 

The  thick  layers  of  his  arrogant  self-conceit  were 
at  last  pierced  by  the  wild  sincerity  of  her  tone.  His 
whole  manner  changed  in  an  instant. 

"And  why  not?"  he  cried  roughly.  He  thrust  his 
chin  into  her  face,  his  eyes  blazing.  "Is  it  because 
of  that  Grissom?  Say,"  he  caught  her  roughly  by 
the  shoulder,  "are  you  in  love  with  him?  Because 
if  you  are — "  he  broke  off  threateningly. 

"No,  no,  I'm  not,  I'm  not !"  she  gasped,  and  thor- 
oughly frightened,  the  delicately  poised  balance  of 
her  nature  completely  upset,  fell  to  a  more  tempestu- 
ous and  bitter  weeping. 

"Oh,  Lord !"  he  groaned,  "don't  begin  that."  He 
stood  up  and,  thrusting  his  hands  deep  into  his 
pockets,  scowled  anxiously  down  upon  her.  "Say, 
Hilda,  Hilda,  stop  it,"  he  begged  "It's  all  right.  I 
didn't  mean  to  frighten  you.  Say,  don't  cry  that 
way."  He  leaned  over  and  patted  her  down-bent 
head  with  his  great  hand,  but  at  his  touch  she  sprang 


232  SALLY    SALT 

to  her  feet  and  shrank  more  visibly  than  ever  from 
him. 

"Why,  why,"  her  voice  so  shaken  by  her  emotion 
as  to  be  almost  indistinguishable,  "why  does  every- 
body think  every  girl  wants  to  get  married?  I  do 
not.  Father  understands,  but  he's  the  only  one  in 
all  the  world  who  does." 

"What's  the  use  of  acting  that  way?"  growled 
Washburne,  but  all  of  his  rude  efforts  at  consola- 
tion proving  unsuccessful,  he  stood  about  rather 
helplessly  for  a  few  moments  and  then,  deeming  it 
the  part  of  wisdom  to  postpone  his  wooing  until  a 
more  convenient  season,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders 
awkwardly  once  or  twice,  muttered  some  inaudible 
excuses  and  strode  off  into  the  darkness. 

Hilda  sat,  a  huddled  shape  in  the  gloom,  still 
shaken  by  an  occasional  sob,  her  elbows  on  her 
knees,  her  chin  cupped  in  her  hands.  At  last  her 
father  wandered  up  the  path,  his  hands  behind  him, 
his  head  uplifted. 

"Father,  father!"  she  caught  quickly  at  his  coat 
as  he  passed. 

"Why,  Hilda !"  he  exclaimed.  "You  not  in  bed 
yet?"  He  let  his  hand  rest  for  a  moment  on  her 


WHISPERS    AND    GLIMPSES        233 

hair,  then  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  stoop.  "You 
like  the  night,  too,  don't  you,  Hilda  ?" 

"I  love  it,"  she  said  dreamily.  "It  always  makes 
me  want  to  sing.  I  want  to  get  away  in  some  wide 
meadow  and  send  my  voice  up  to  the  brightest  star 
I  can  see.  I  like  to  think  it  reaches  it." 

"Maybe  it  does,"  he  said  simply.  "Things  are 
nearer  at  night.  In  the  daytime  you  can  always  see 
horizons,  the  end  of  things,  but  at  night  a  star  that 
you  can  see  is  a  good  deal  nearer  than  the  garden 
gate  yonder  that  you  can  not  see.  And  just  think, 
Hilda,  all  around  us  are  worlds  and  worlds  that  you 
can't  see,  but  that  are  really  just  as  near  us  as  yonder 
star  or  as  this  morning-glory  vine  on  the  porch." 

Hilda  nestled  her  head  against  his  shoulder  with 
a  contented  sigh.  "I  don't  always  know  what  you 
mean,  father,  but  I  like  to  hear  it.  Do  you  ever  get 
lonely  in  your  world,  father?" 

"No,"  he  shook  his  head,  "not  lonely,  but  a  little 
— a  little  puzzled  and  impatient  now  and  then.  Did 
you  ever  hear  anything  that  was  so  beautiful  that 
it  was  like  nothing  else  you  ever  dreamed  of,  Hilda, 
and  while  you  held  your  breath  to  listen,  it  was 
gone  ?  That's  the  way  it  is  with  me.  I  hear  whis- 


234  SALLY    SALT 

pers,  whispers  of  wonderful  things,  and  sometimes 
I  see  them,  just  a  glimpse,  and  then  they  are  gone. 
They  are  the  real  things,  Hilda,  and  the  only  real 
things.  But  why  do  I  see  in  part  and  hear  in  part  ? 
Why  can  I  not  see  them  wholly?  That  is  what  I 
can't  understand." 

"The  real  things!"  she  repeated.  "Oh,  I  know 
what  you  mean.  To  me,  they  are  the  little  songs 
that  come  to  me  when  I  am  all  alone." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "and  you  can  hear  whispers  of 
the  real  worlds  and  you  can  see  glimpses  of  them, 
but  you  can  never  really  live  in  them  until  you  know 
the  secret.  I've  learned  that,  Hilda.  There's  some 
secret  of  life,  that  the  world  has  lost  or  forgotten, 
but  I've  got  to  find  it,  Hilda,  I've  got  to  find  it." 

"Will  it  not  come  to  us  when  we're  ready  for  it," 
she  asked,  "just  as  my  little  songs  come?  Just  as 
love  comes?  Sometimes  for  days  I'll  be  thinking 
about  one  and  it  won't  have  any  shape  or  music, 
and  then,  some  day  when  I  won't  be  thinking  about 
it  at  all,  I'll  begin  to  sing  it;  words  and  music,  it 
will  all  be  there." 

"Maybe  it  will,"  he  agreed  hopefully.  "Maybe  it 
will." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

AUTUMN    WITHOUT    ANTHONY 

AUNT  MANDY,"  said  Sally,  as  she  stood  in 
her  kitchen  one  morning,  "may  I  ask  why  you 
are  throwing  the  pots  and  pans  around  at  such  a 
rate  ?  Anybody  might  think  a  cyclone  had  struck  us." 

There  was  another  violent  rattling  of  Sally's 
pewter  and  copper  vessels  before  Aunt  Mandy  saw 
fit  to  answer,  then  she  shook  her  turbaned  head 
ominously  and  shot  out  her  lower  jaw. 

"I  tell  yo'  what  it  is,  Miss  Sally,  I  stood  dish  yer 
nonsense  ob  Wilmerdine's  just  about  as  long  as  I 
gwine  to.  No,  somepin's  got  to  be  done,  an',"  with 
portentous  nods,  "I  jus*  about  decided  what  it's 
gwine  to  be." 

"Yes?"  said  Sally,  who  was  stirring  a  great  bowl 
oi  spice  cake.  "Well,  on  what  line  are  you  going  to 
fight  it  out  ?" 

"I  ain't  quite  ready  to  specify  dat  yet,  even  to 
235 


236  SALLY   SALT 

you,"  replied  Aunt  Mandy  with  importance,  "but 
dere  is  one  thing  dat  I  knows  mighty  well,  and  dat 
is  dis :  I  ain't  one  of  dese  yer  ol'-fashioned  mothahs 
dat's  goin'  to  let  a  good  fo'  nothin'  piece  ob  trash 
like  Wilmerdine  bring  my  gray  hairs  in  sorrow  to 
de  grave.  No,  ma'am,"  with  emphasis,  "dese  yer 
kids  dey  grow  up  an'  dey  think  dey  can  teach  dere 
po'  ol'  mothahs  a  few  wrinkles,  but  dat  ain't  de  way 
I  am.  I  ain't  dat  resignated.  Wilmerdine's  goin' 
to  have  de  surprise  ob  her  life,  Miss  Sally,  Wilmer- 
dine's goin'  to  have  dat  overweanering  pride  of 
her'n  humbled  in  de  dust." 

"Oh,  come  now,  Aunt  Mandy,"  expostulated 
Sally,  "you  mustn't  be  too  hard  on  Wilmerdine. 
What  do  you  propose  to  do  ?"  She  spoke  with  some 
anxiety. 

But  Aunt  Mandy  only  tossed  her  head  and  in- 
dulged in  a  series  of  chuckles.  "Don't  you  get  to 
worryin'  none,  Miss  Sally,  I  ain't  goin'  to  lift  a 
finger  agin  her,  but  Wilmerdine's  gwine  to  get  a 
lesson  dat  she  shell  remember  for  de  rest  ob  her 
natchal  life." 

"You  will  have  to  begin  soon  then,"  remarked 
Sally,  "because  it  has  struck  me  lately  that  Uncle 


AUTUMN    WITHOUT   ANTHONY     237 

Poodle  is  not  quite  so  indifferent  as  he  once  was.  I 
really  think  that  maybe  he  is  at  last  beginning  to 
take  notice." 

"Huh !"  Aunt  Mandy  tossed  her  head  scornfully. 
"Don't  let  dat  bothah  you  all  for  a  minute,  Miss 
Sally.  Dat's  just  de  man  ob  him.  Dat  won't  las' 
long."  Her  mirth,  gasping  and  wheezing,  almost 
overcame  her. 

A  sudden  gust  of  wind  swept  through  the  kitchen. 
"It  looks  to  me,"  said  Sally,  "as  if  we  were  going 
to  have  quite  a  touch  of  cool  weather." 

"Praise  Gawd,  I  hope  so."  Aunt  Mandy  squinted 
her  eyes  at  the  sky.  "All  the  better  fo'  me  an'  what 
I  got  on  my  hands.  My  Lawd,  Miss  Sally,  whar 
Mis'  Nesbit  an'  dat  ol'  Mis'  Fuss-budget  ob  a  Mis' 
Hill  pacin'  to  dis  mornin'  ?" 

"They're  making  for  the  garden,"  replied  Sally, 
also  glancing  through  the  window. 

Mrs.  Nesbit,  muffled  in  shawls,  moved  along  by 
the  side  of  the  more  ponderous  and  self-reliant  Mrs. 
Hill.  At  the  entrance  to  the  garden  Mrs.  Hill 
paused  and  gazed  about  her  with  lack-luster  eye  and 
pursed  mouth. 

"It's  awful  pretty,  ain't  it?"  ventured  Mrs.  Nes- 


238  SALLY    SALT 

bit  timidly.     "I  always  think  a  September  garden's 
about  the  prettiest  thing  anybody  can  see." 

"Humph!"  Mrs.  Hill  gazed  grudgingly  about 
her.  "It  looks  that  way  now,  but  next  week  or 
maybe  sooner,  to-morrow  or  to-day,  there'll  come  a 
frost  and  these  flowers  that  seem  so  bright  and  gay 
now  will  all  be  withered  and  gone,  just  wilted  down 
to  nothing.  And  since  they  are  so  soon  to  perish, 
Mis'  Nesbit,  supposin'  you  get  me  a  spade  and  a 
little  covered  basket  and  I'll  dig  some  of  'em  up  and 
try  to  save  them." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  hesitated  visibly.  "I  don't  know  if 
that  would  be  right.  Don't  you  think  we'd  better 
ask  Sally  before  we  go  to  digging  up  her  flowers  ?" 

Mrs.  Hill  paused  in  the  path  and  gazed  at  her 
companion  with  a  sort  of  large,  exasperated  sur- 
prise. "Ain't  you  got  any  rights  here  at  all  after  all 
the  years  you  been  doing  Mis'  Salt  a  favor  by  living 
with  her?"  she  demanded.  "Can't  you  even  walk 
in  the  garden  and  pick  a  posy  when  you  want  to 
without  her  coming  down  on  you  ?" 

Mrs.  Nesbit's  face  flushed  and  her  chin  trembled. 
"I  can  pick  all  the  posies  I  like  and  you  know  it, 
Hetty  Hill,  but  it's  different  when  it  comes  to  spad- 


AUTUMN    WITHOUT    ANTHONY     239 

ing  Sally's  flowers  up  by  the  roots  and  carrying 
them  off  and  never  saying  'by  your  leave'  to  her." 

Mrs.  Hill's  brow  beetled,  a  deeper  red  crept  up  her 
cheek,  and  then  she  looked  down  upon  her  com- 
panion with  a  smile  of  pity  and  tolerance.  "Can't 
you  ever  see  things  straight?"  She  spoke  as  one 
whose  patience  was  worn  thin  by  another's  stupidly 
persistent  lack  of  comprehension.  "You  act  like  I 
was  trying  to  steal  some  of  Mrs.  Salt's  flowers.  I 
sometimes  wonder,  Mrs.  Nesbit,  that  I  stay  friends 
with  you  at  all,  the  way  you  go  on,  and  I  wouldn't, 
let  me  tell  you  that,  I  wouldn't  if  it  wasn't  for  the 
Christian  charity  that's  in  me.  Taking  Mrs.  Salt's 
flowers  without  her  leave,  indeed!  Why,  I  wonder 
that  you've  got  the  face  to  stand  there  and  look  me 
in  the  eye.  Humph !  Why,  if  I  could  go  down  and 
buy  out  all  Jim  Simpson's  conservatory,  the  same  as 
Sally  Salt  does,  don't  you  think  I'd  get  a  handsomer 
lot  of  flowers  than  these?  Since  I  got  to  explain 
things  to  you,  Melinda,  like  you  was  two  years  old, 
you  might  just  as  well  understand,  once  and  for  all, 
that  all  I  was  trying  to  do  was  to  help  Mrs.  Salt 
out.  Look  at  these  geraniums  now,  all  crowded  to- 
gether, so  not  one  of  'em  could  put  out  a  new  shoot 


240  SALLY    SALT 

if  they  tried.  And  here  I  was  willing  to  take  my 
time  and  help  Mrs.  Salt  by  thinning  them  out  a  little, 
and  because  it  would  be  a  sin  to  throw  away  good 
geraniums,  I  was  also  willing  to  go  to  the  trouble 
of  taking  them  home  and  looking  after  them.  And 
then  what  happens?  You  go  flying  off  the  handle 
and  the  same  as  tell  me  that  I'm  a  thief !" 

She  had  now  successfully  reduced  Mrs.  Nesbit  to 
the  state  that  that  little  creature  was  usually  in  at 
the  close  of  one  of  her  visits,  mental  confusion  and 
outward  and  visible  tears. 

"I  don't  think  you  got  any  call  to  talk  so  to  me, 
Hetty  Hill,"  Mrs.  Nesbit  began  with  her  invariable 
reproach,  "and  Lucy  Parrish,  she  was  saying  only 
yesterday  that  instead  of  your  visits  cheering  me  up 
they  always  left  me  as  unhappy  as  could  be." 

"Lucy  Parrish!"  repeated  Mrs.  Hill  with  fine 
scorn,  "Lucy  Parrish !  She's  a  nice  one  to  talk.  Lucy 
Parrish  had  better  keep  a  mighty  still  tongue  in  her 
head.  Folks  are  talking  good  and  plenty  about  her 
and  John  Witherspoon.  John  Witherspoon  has  al- 
ways stood  well  in  this  community  and  been  re- 
spected until  lately,  and  some  of  the  goings-on!" 
Mrs.  Hill  shut  her  mouth  very  tight  and  slowly 


AUTUMN    WITHOUT   ANTHONY     241 

shook  her  head  back  and  forth.  "Well,  that's  all  I 
got  to  say.  I'm  going  now.  You,  Melinda  Nesbit, 
that  I  always  thought  was  one  of  the  best  friends 
that  I  had  in  the  world,  have  not  only  called  me  a 
thief  when  I  came  to  pay  a  friendly  call,  but  have 
also  informed  me  that  I  have  been  made  a  subject  of 
gossip,  and  that  you're  willing  to  sit  by  the  hour  and 
listen  to  anything  that  a  feather-headed  piece  of  ex- 
travagance has  got  to  say  about  me.  Oh,  well!  I 
guess  there's  nothing  more  to  be  said.  I'll  be  going 
now  and  for  good." 

Mrs.  Nesbit  plucked  at  her  dress.  "No,  Hetty 
Hill,  you  don't  need  to  go  on  like  that,  and  you 
know  it.  Lucy  didn't  really  say  anything,  and — 
and  Hetty,  instead  of  carrying  home  some  flowers 
your  ownself,  if  you'll  just  wait,  I'll  ask  Sally  if 
she  won't  send  you  over  a  real,  big  basket  of  nice 
plants  to-morrow." 

Mrs.  Hill  showed  faint  signs  of  becoming  molli- 
fied. "Maybe  I  was  hasty,"  she  admitted  gener- 
ously. "But  you  should  be  more  careful  of  what 
you  say,  Melinda.  I  don't  for  a  minute  believe  that 
you  mean  all  your  biting  speeches,  but  you  should 
try  and  be  more  tactful." 


242  SALLY    SALT 

"I  know,"  murmured  Mrs.  Nesbit  humbly,  "and  I 
am  trying." 

"Yes,  and  I  know  it  ain't  so  easy  for  you,  living 
with  Sally  Salt,"  Mrs.  Hill  conceded,  "and  you're 
the  kind,  Melinda,  that  lets  her  carry  on  as  she 
pleases,  ride  over  you  rough  shod  if  she's  a  mind  to, 
and  you  never  say  one  single  word.  Now,  if  it  was 
me—" 

They  were  opposite  the  porch  by  this  time,  and, 
arrested  by  a  slight  terrified  movement  on  the  part 
of  Mrs.  Nesbit,  Mrs.  Hill  suddenly  lifted  her  eyes 
to  find  Sally's  gaze,  intensely  blue  and  full  of  a 
merciless  mirth,  fixed  upon  her. 

"Now,  really,  what  would  you  do,  Mrs.  Hill?" 
Sally  had  finished  her  spice  cake,  turned  the  baking 
of  it  over  to  Aunt  Mandy,  and  hand  in  hand  with 
Harris  Hurd,  who  in  some  way  managed  to  spend 
the  greater  part  of  his  days  with  her,  had  sought  the 
porch.  She  sat,  as  usual,  on  the  top  step  in  the  full 
glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  center  of  a  happy  family 
group  of  cats  and  dogs  and  Harris. 

Mrs.  Hill  stopped  short,  made  a  hasty  step  for- 
ward, as  if  to  stand  not  upon  the  order  of  her  go- 
ing; and  then,  recovering  herself,  stood  enwrapped 


AUTUMN    WITHOUT   ANTHONY     243 

in  that  remote  and  Buddhistic  calm  which  was  so 
unnerving  to  Mrs.  Nesbit. 

"Dear  me,  is  that  you,  Mrs.  Salt?"  she  exclaimed 
with  admirably  simulated  surprise.  "It  seems  to 
me  that  I  understood  you  weren't  at  home."  She 
cast  an  inquiring  look  at  Mrs.  Nesbit  which  made 
the  little  creature  quail. 

"So  you  thought  it  was  a  good  time  for  the  dis- 
cussion of  my  tyrannies." 

"Your  tyrannies!"  uncomprehendingly.  "You 
only  heard  the  beginning  of  what  I  was  saying, 
Mrs.  Salt,  and  the  beginning  of  anything  is  no  clue 
to  the  ending.  If  you'd  a  waited,  you'd  a  probably 
heard  something  very  different  from  what  you  ex- 
pected." Mrs.  Hill  never  hesitated  to  take  higher 
ground  than  her  accusers,  no  matter  how  difficult 
it  might  be  to  scramble  there.  "I  think  what  you 
overheard,  Mrs.  Salt,  was  my  saying  to  Melinda 
here  that  you  sometimes  seemed  kind  of  rough  shod, 
and  that  you  sometimes  seemed  kind  of  peppery, 
that  there  was  folks  that  even  went  so  far  as  to  say 
so,  though  for  my  part,  I'd  never  seen  anything  of 
it;  and  if  you'd  only  waited  a  minute,  you'd  a  heard 
me  begging  Melinda  not  to  listen  to  everything  this 


244  SALLY    SALT 

person  or  that  person  says,  but  to  show  a  sperrit  of 
love,  always  to  show  a  sperrit  of  love."  Mrs.  Hill's 
voice  soared  and  sank  in  her  public  utterance  sing- 
song. "That's  what  we  need,  that's  what  we  want," 
fervently,  "that's  what  we  got  to  show  out  in  our 
lives."  She  closed  her  eyes,  folded  her  hands  and 
swayed  slowly  back  and  forth  in  a  sort  of  an  ecstatic 
trance.  After  a  moment  or  two  of  this  rapt  medita- 
tion, she  opened  them  again,  and  descended  to  more 
commonplace  conversational  levels. 

"I  was  a-going  to  speak  to-night  in  prayer  meet- 
ing, felt  it  was  about  time  to  speak  a  word  in  season, 
here  a  little,  and  there  a  little,  and  I  didn't  know 
what  subject  to  choose,  and  here  it  is  right  to  my 
hand,  the  sperrit  of  love." 

She  waited  a  moment  or  two  for  a  word  of  ap- 
proval from  Sally,  but  as  none  came,  she  adopted 
the  easy,  casual  manner  of  the  welcome  visitor  and 
sat  down  on  the  second  step  from  the  ground,  heav- 
ily, it  is  true,  and  as  she  did  so  thrusting  out  one 
mastodonic  leg  and  both  arms  in  the  effort  to  pre- 
serve her  balance. 

"That's  a  nice  dog  you've  got  there.  What's  his 
name?"  she  asked  amiably.  "A  pretty  cat,  too! 


AUTUMN   WITHOUT   ANTHONY     245 

Well,  it's  pleasant  to  have  pets  around,  if  you  can 
afford  to  feed  'em." 

"Harris,"  said  Sally  lazily,  "don't  bestow  all  your 
cookies  on  the  dogs,  give  some  to  Mrs.  Hill." 

"Thank  you  kindly,  Harris."  Mrs.  Hill  regarded 
the  thing  proffered  rather  than  the  manner  in  which 
the  offering  was  directed  toward  herself,  and  care- 
fully selected  two  of  the  brownest  and  crispest 
cookies  on  the  plate.  "I  think  the  last  time  I  had 
the  pleasure  of  eating  any  of  your  cake,  Mrs.  Salt, 
was  down  to  Preacher's  the  other  day. 

"  'Mrs.  Salt  will  do  anything  for  me  except  come 
to  hear  me  preach,'  he  says  in  his  kind  of  joking 
way.  'She  sends  her  choicest  flowers  to  the  church 
every  Sunday,  a  wagon-load  if  we  want  'em;  she 
keeps  us  supplied  with  fresh  fruit  and  vegetables, 
and  it's  always  something  nice  to  eat  and  something 
nice  to  weaf  for  the  wife  and  children.' 

"  'Well,'  I  says  very  quiet,  but  I  thought  the  time 
was  ripe  for  saying  it,  'well,  Preacher,  since  Mrs. 
Salt  has  taken  the  stand  that  she  won't  come  to  hear 
your  expositions  from  the  pulpit,  why  some  folks 
would  be  too  proud  to  accept  clothes  for  their  backs 
and  food  for  their  mouths,'  and  I  told  him  further 


246  SALLY    SALT 

that  if  he  really  trusted  the  Lord,  he'd  take  no 
thought  for  the  morrow.  Then  his  wife  she  started 
right  in.  My!  That  woman  has  a  tongue.  You 
mark  my  words.  Every  charge  he  gets  by  his  word- 
painting  she'll  lose  for  him  by  hers." 

"You  never  miss  a  chance  to  make  others  happy, 
do  you,  Mrs.  Hill?"  idly  interrupted  Sally. 

"I  ain't  so  particular  about  their  being  happy,  that 
ain't  what  we're  in  the  world  for,  but,"  modestly, 
"I  do  try  to  make  'em  better." 

"Then  you  ought  to  be  the  happiest  person  on 
earth.  I  really  believe  that  the  greatest  thing  in  the 
world  is  always  to  feel  dead  sure  that  you're  right." 
Sally  spoke  with  a  sort  of  passionate  weariness. 

It  was  unnoticed  by  Mrs.  Hill,  delicate  shades  of 
meaning;,  nuances  of  color  in  tone  were  lost  upon 
her.  Words  were  words.  A  primrose  by  the  river's 
brim  was  to  her  emphatically  a  simple  prjjnrose,  and 
since  it  was  a  mere  wild  flower  and  therefore  cheap, 
it  was  an  object  more  to  be  ignored  than  admired. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  refused  the  laurel.  "I  don't  know 
as  I'd  be  claiming  to  be  always  right." 

"Why  not?"  asked  Sally.     "Claim  it  all,  Mrs. 


AUTUMN    WITHOUT   ANTHONY     247 

Hill,  claim  it  all.  There's  nothing  to  hinder  you, 
certainly  not  yourself." 

Her  visitor  smiled  and  accepted  the  tribute  with 
complacence.  "I  hope  not.  I'd  hate  to  stand  in  my 
own  light.  "Well,"  she  rose  to  her  feet,  assisted  by 
her  umbrella,  "I  guess  I'd  better  be  going." 

Sally,  her  head  thrown  back  against  a  pillar  of  the 
porch,  gazed  far  beyond  the  departing  guest,  her 
glance  plunging  into  the  very  heart  of  the  Septem- 
ber splendor.  So  she  sat  dreaming.  Harris  lay,  with 
his  head  on  her  knee,  munching  cookies.  A  great, 
pampered  silver-gray  cat  was  curled  up  in  her  lap, 
another,  a  tortoise  shell,  at  her  feet  was  engaged  in 
contemptuous  conversation  by  a  collie,  who  testified 
his  disapproval  of  her  by  punctuating  her  haughty 
disdain  with  occasional  short,  sharp  barks,  threaten- 
ing in  character,  but  entirely  failing  in  intimidating 
effect.  A  golden  brown  Irish  setter  lay  with  his 
nose  on  Sally's  other  knee,  turning  watchful  eyes 
on  the  indifferent,  napping  fluff  of  silver  so  near 
him  and  most  loving  eyes  upon  his  mistress. 

But  Sally  was  not  even  half -conscious  of  any  of 
them.  This  was  autumn,  the  season  when  she  and 


248  SALLY    SALT 

Anthony  had  been  happiest,  the  season  which  they 
had  regarded  as  especially  their  own,  when  together 
they  had  gathered  great  clusters  of  grapes,  dusky 
with  purple  bloom  against  their  dark  leaves,  peaches 
and  apples  reddening  more  deeply  every  hour,  the 
air  rich  with  the  musk  of  ripening  fruit,  the  tang 
of  cider;  the  year  drawing  to  a  golden  completion, 
mellow,  warm,  as  if  the  earth  had  treasured  all  the 
sunshine  of  the  months  in  her  heart  and  was  now 
radiating  it. 

How  she  and  Anthony  had  loved  it!  Free  and 
careless,  they  had  wandered  through  those  sumptu- 
ous courts  of  September,  unabashed,  with  heads  up, 
laughing,  rejoicing  at  the  dazzle  and  glamour  and 
magic  of  it.  How  the  autumn  had  welcomed  them ! 
Cloth  of  gold  for  their  feet  to  tread;  banners  of 
color  flung  to  every  breeze.  The  imperial  purples! 
The  kingly  scarlets! 

Ah,  he  and  she  had  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 
been  happy  from  opal  dawn  to  violet  night,  when 
the  harvest  moon,  "an  orbed  maiden,  with  white 
fire  laden"  had  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  crest  of 
the  low,  dark  hills  and  then  floated  upward  through 
the  infinite,  blue  ether.  Sally  could  hear  quite 


AUTUMN    WITHOUT   ANTHONY     249 

plainly  Anthony's  voice  apostrophizing  her,  that 
halting,  hesitating  voice,  which  could  yet  express  all 
rich  and  sweet  and  plaintive  cadences  of  sound : 

"  'Oh,  moon,  pale  siren,  with  wild  eyes  drinking 
The  light  of  the  sun  as  she  sweepeth  by 

I  am  asking  my  heart  if  you  pity  or  cherish 
The  souls  that  you  witch  with  the  harvest  call, 

If  the  dream  must  die  when  the  dreamer  perish, 
If  it  be  idle  to  dream  at  all  ?'  " 

Almost  she  stretched  out  her  arms,  almost  she 
cried,  "Ah,  let  the  world  with  its  beggarly  standards, 
its  petty  activities,  its  wearisome  routines,  its  little 
worship  of  hours  and  days  go,  but  leave  me  my 
dreams."  She  looked  out  over  her  garden,  and 
again  Time  was  not.  Again  Anthony  stood  there 
with  her,  again  he  laughed  at  her  and  accused  her 
of  being  a  miser,  of  trying  to  steal  all  the  color  of 
the  earth  and  sky  and  hoard  it  in  her  garden  patch. 
The  glow  of  it  blended  to  a  vital  harmony,  organ 
tones,  strong  and  deep;  scarlet  salvias,  masses  of 
golden-glow,  rows  and  rows  of  purple  asters. 

"Sally,"  Harris'  voice,  small  and  aggrieved,  broke 


250  SALLY    SALT 

through  her  dreaming ;  "Sally,  I've  asked  you  about 
a  hundred  times,  'When  will  Mr.  Streatham  come 
again?'" 

"He's  here,"  she  murmured,  "here  always.  He 
never  has  gone,  never  can  go." 

Anne  strolled  up  the  path,  a  sunshade  over  her 
head.  "Dear  me,"  she  said,  "this  is  quite  unusual 
to  see  you  idle,  Mrs.  Salt,  and  not  in  the  fields  or 
breaking  one  of  the  horses." 

"Occasionally  I  think,"  laconically. 

"Do  you  ever  read?"  asked  Anne.  "I  should 
think  that  you  would  find  it  a  great  rest  and  recrea- 
tion in  your  busy  life." 

"Why  should  I  play  with  other  people's  toys  when 
I've  got  my  own?"  demanded  Sally.  "Why  do  I 
want  to  read  other  people's  descriptions  of  life  when 
I  can  live  myself?  And  I've  lived !"  How  she  threw 
her  head  up !  "And  I  will  live.  Not  all  the  rain  that 
ever  fell  can  make  me  forget  one  hour  of  sunshine. 
I'll  tell  you  what  you  had  better  do  with  all  your 
dull,  self -improving  days,  Anne,  you  throw  them 
all  on  the  scrap-heap  of  the  world.  Then  live,  give. 
It's  all  the  same.  It's  only  when  we  hold  on  to  our 
pitiful  rags  of  egotism,  that  we  call  self-respect  and 


AUTUMN    WITHOUT    ANTHONY     251, 

proper  dignity  and  all  that  sort  of  thing  that  we 
starve  and  freeze,  and  the  more  we  wrap  ourselves 
in  them  the  colder  and  hungrier  we  get.  Throw 
them  away,  Anne,  and  love  down  to  the  last  cell  of 
your  heart,  laugh  from  some  inexhaustible  spring  of 
joy,  suffer  to  the  final  throb  of  anguish,  but  don't 
whine.  That's  living.  That's  all  that's  worth 
while." 

But  Anne's  spine  had  stiffened,  Anne's  mouth  had 
pinched.  "That  sort  of  philosophy  is  the  result  of 
hours  of  idle  dreaming.  If  one  took  your  advice 
literally,  how  could  one  ever  improve  or  progress?" 

"Why  not?"  asked  Sally.  "Surely  there  is  more 
than  one  road  to  perfection,  and  who  shall  say  which 
is  the  best  way.  Funny  thing,  Anne,  you  make  me 
think  of  old  Mrs.  Hobson.  She  set  out  early  in  life 
to  live  by  line,  rule  and  plummet.  Method  was  her 
god,  system  represented  to  her  the  whole  of  the 
moral  creed.  She  was  continually  saying,  'There's 
only  one  way  to  do  a  thing,  and  that's  the  right  way.' 
The  most  awful  thing  that  she  could  say  about  any- 
body was  that  they  had  no  sense  of  responsibility. 
Sick  or  well  she  did  her  duty  by  every  one  about  her 
so  thoroughly  that  she  swept  all  the  joy  out  of  their 


252  SALLY    SALT 

lives:  She  had  a  way  of  putting  her  foot  down  and 
saying,  'I  wouldn't  put  up  with  this  or  that  in  a  man, 
husband  or  no  husband.'  And  surely  Mr.  Hobson 
looked  as  if  she  lived  up  to  it.  He  finally  disap- 
peared, just  walked  off  and  was  never  heard  of  again 
after  he  had  stood  about  fifteen  years  of  it.  The 
rest  of  the  family,  boys  and  girls,  are  poor,  spiritless 
creatures  with  just  about  enough  life  left  in  them  to 
crawl  about  and  not  enough  ever  to  hustle  or  really 
do  anything.  There  isn't  one  of  them  that  could 
possibly  act  on  their  own  initiative,  they  had  that  all 
trained  out  of  them.  She  was  great  in  the  training 
of  children. 

"That's  the  reason  I  spoil  you  so,  Harris,  as  Anne 
evidently  thinks;  spoiling  is  good  for  some  people, 
and  you're  one  of  them.  But  if  you  pull  Silver's  tail 
once  again,  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  twenty  times,  and 
you  know  how  you  hate  kisses,  you  boy-creature! 
Come  on  now,  let's  go  and  get  some  eggs  for  Aunt 
Mandy." 


CHAPTER  XVII 

HILDA    MAKES    CONFESSION 

IF  alternate  love  and  longing,  anger,  regret  and 
resentment,  had  written  certain  lines  about 
Sally's  mouth  and  eyes,  many  conflicting  and  equally 
poignant  emotions  had  not  spared  their  fine  etchings 
on  Mrs.  Hurd's  remarkably  unwrinkled  counte- 
nance. 

Each  day  of  the  departing  summer  had  seemed  to 
drag.  The  corn  gave  out  its  rich  odors,  the  weeds 
grew  more  lush  and  springing,  though  soon  to  feel 
the  first  sharp  blades  of  the  frost,  the  hazes  on  the 
hills  became  every  day  more  purple,  the  cobwebs 
began  to  float  across  the  paths,  but  although  Maria 
Kurd  waited  and  watched  as  might  a  deserted 
maiden  for  her  lover,  Grissom  did  not  come,  and  this 
month  or  two  of  anxious  waiting  had  begun  to  tell 
even  upon  one  so  calm  and  impassive  in  tempera- 
ment as  Maria  Hurd.  Every  day  the  slight  pucker- 

253 


254  SALLY    SALT 

ing  about  the  eyes  and  the  faint  drawn  look  about 
the  mouth  became  more  visible. 

One  morning  as  she  moved  about  the  kitchen, 
ostensibly  occupied  with  household  duties,  she  con- 
tinually halted  at  the  window  or  the  open  door  to 
i 

cast  a  sharp  and  more  or  less  anxious  glance  at  Mr. 
Hurd,  who  sat  upon  the  porch  looking  over  a  bundle 
of  letters  and  newspapers  which  had  arrived  a  short 
time  before.  The  letters  had  aroused  her  curiosity, 
and  in  some  indefinable  way,  her  suspicions;  but 
when  she  had  questioned  him  two  or  three  times  in 
regard  to  their  contents  and  received  only  absent  and 
unsatisfactory  answers,  she  decided  to  await  a  more 
convenient  season. 

Presently  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a  peculiar 
sound,  something  between  an  exclamation,  a  gasp, 
and  a  rattle  in  the  throat.  She  turned  quickly  and 
ran  out  upon  the  porch. 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  cried. 

He  did  not  answer  her  but  sat  staring  at  the  hills 
as  if  for  the  first  time  he  did  not  see  them.  His 
mouth  had  fallen  slightly  open  and  his  face  showed 
a  bluish  pallor.  The' paper  was  crumpled  sharply  in 
his  hands,  the  letters  had  slipped  to  the  ground. 


HILDA    MAKES    CONFESSION       255 

"What's  the  matter?"  she  repeated  sharply. 

He  looked  up  rather  wildly  and  ran  his  trembling 
fingers  through  his  hair.  "The  matter,"  he  mut- 
tered. "Oh,  oh, — "  he  groped  for  some  explanation. 

For  another  moment  she  surveyed  him  steadily 
and  then  sat  down  on  the  step. 

"Something's  happened,"  she  announced.  "Oh, 
you  needn't  be  moving  your  head  around  nor  half 
getting  up  as  if  to  go  away.  Something's  happened 
and  you  might  as  well  tell  me  what  it  is." 

Mr.  Hurd  rarely  had  any  conversation  with  his 
wife  and  as  rarely  looked  at  her.  When  he  did  so 
it  was  with  a  manifest  and  shrinking  distaste ;  it  was 
evident  now  in  his  averted  glance,  his  involuntary 
effort  to  escape. 

"It  is  my  own  affair,"  making  an  ineffective  effort 
to  recover  his  dignity. 

"Your  own  affair!"  she  repeated  with  slow,  un- 
mixed scorn.  "I'd  like  to  know  what  affairs  you 
got  and  how  you'd  manage  'em  if  you  had  any. 
What  are  all  those  letters  about  ?" 

He  moistened  his  lips  once  or  twice.  "Some  in- 
vestments I  made,"  he  muttered. 

"Investments!     You!"     She  looked  at  him  now 


256  SALLY   SALT 

more  closely  and  curiously.  She  had  long  regarded 
him  as  half  cracked,  to  use  her  own  phraseology, 
but  now  it  struck  her  that  whatever  wits  he  had  pos- 
sessed had  completely  deserted  him. 

He  looked  at  her  in  piteous  fashion  and  essayed 
to  speak,  but  no  words  came ;  his  gaze  wandered  be- 
yond her,  dwelling  on  the  broad,  rolling  landscape, 
and  gradually  his  whole  expression  underwent  a 
marked  and  subtle  change.  His  eyes  no  longer 
seemed  sad  and  faded  and  old;  they  had  regained 
their  peculiar  introspective,  luminous  glow;  his 
figure  straightened,  he  threw  back  his  shoulders, 
taking  a  deep  breath,  and  his  hands  ceased  to 
tremble. 

"You're  always  talking  about  money,"  he  said, 
"and  throwing  it  up  to  me  that  I  didn't  have  the 
faculty  of  making  it,  so  I  began  to  think  about  it, 
too.  I  began  to  think  that  if  we  had  money,  we 
wouldn't  be  tied  down  here,  that  we  could  travel, 
see  the  deserts  and  oceans,  and  the  mosques  and 
temples  and  ruins  and  wonderful  cities,  and  the 
mountains  all  covered  with  snow,  and  I  got  to  think- 
ing about  it  more  and  more,  things  kind  of  taking 
possession  of  me,  you  know,  and  to  studying  about 


HILDA    MAKES    CONFESSION       257 

ttie  way  to  make  money,  and  then  one  day  I  saw  an 
advertisement  in  the  paper,  an  advertisement  of  a 
gold  mine.  It  was  a  sure  thing,  way  up  in  Alaska, 
and  if  you  could  buy  a  few  shares  it  would  be  like 
an  income  coming  in  to  you  all  the  time,  every  year 
more  and  more.  So  I  wrote  to  the  firm  that  adver- 
tised it,  and  the  letters  I  got  from  them  were  very 
convincing,  very  convincing  indeed.  They  gave  the 
whole  history  of  the  thing,  and  showed  just  why 
they  needed  the  money  now  for  development  or  they 
wouldn't  let  one  share  go  out  of  their  hands,  and 
then  they  explained  how  nobody  who  came  forward 
and  took  some  shares  could  possibly  lose.  Well, 
there  was  some  money  of  mine  in  the  bank — " 

"What!"  she  cried,  leaning  forward,  her  eyes 
narrowing  until  they  seemed  a  mere  line  of  hard 
metallic  glitter,  her  face  set  in  tense  lines.  "You 
mean  to  say  that  you  drew  money  out  of  the  bank 
and  sent  it  off  without  consulting  me !"  She  looked 
at  him  unbelievingly.  "No,  you  never  did  that." 

"Yes,  I  did,"  he  said  simply.  "And  then,  when  I 
opened  the  paper  this  morning,  I  saw  that  the  police 
had  got  after  that  firm,  the  firm  I  sent  my  money 
to,  but  they  evidently  suspected  some  move  like  that 


258  SALLY    SALT 

and  got  away,  for  the  police  didn't  find  anything  but 
empty  offices.  So  I  suppose  the  money's  gone." 
Again  he  seemed  to  droop  and  shrink. 

"Oh,  my  Lord !"  The  woman  lifted  her  clenched 
hands  and  shook  them  above  her  head,  and  the 
gleam  which  shot  from  her  narrowed  eyes  was  still 
unrelentingly  upon  him,  piercingly  penetrating  as  a 
dagger  thrust,  burning  as  coals  of  fire.  He  writhed 
under  it. 

"What  have  I  got  to  be  punished  for  this  way?" 
her  harsh  voice  vibrating  with  long-repressed  emo- 
tion. "What  have  I  ever  done  ?  I've  worked  hard 
ever  since  I  can  remember,  just  to  get  along,  just  to 
be  somebody  in  the  world.  That's  all  I  ever  cared 
about.  And  then  I  met  you  and  was  taken  in  by 
you.  I  was  young  and  I  was  caught  by  your  queer 
talk  and  your  handsome  face.  You  had  a  little 
money,  and  I  thought  from  your  fine  talk  that  you'd 
make  a  lot  more,  that  you'd  be  somebody  in  the 
world.  And,  oh,  Lord!  Look  at  what  I  got! 
Look  at  what  I've  had  all  these  years!  I  hadn't 
been  married  to  yon  very  long  before  I  learned  about 
what  I  had  to  expect — that  you  were  good  for  noth- 
ing on  God's  earth  but  to  sit  and  dream.  Put  you 


HILDA   MAKES    CONFESSION       259 

to  plowing,  and  like  as  not  you'd  be  sitting  on  the 
plow  in  the  middle  of  a  field,  you  and  the  horses  both 
dreaming.  And  save  money!  You  got  no  more 
idea  of  saving  than  a  tree  has  when  it's  losing  its 
leaves  in  the  fall.  I'm  all  that  stands  between  this 
family  and  starvation,  and  sooner  or  later  they  can 
starve  as  far  as  I  am  concerned.  I'll  never  take  the 
little  that  Fve  saved  here  and  saved  there  to  keep 
food  in  their  mouths  and  a  roof  over  their  heads.  I 
know  that.  Oh,"  in  another  burst  of  exasperation, 
"if  I  could  just  get  rid  of  all  of  you  and  have  a  little 
house  all  to  myself,  where  I  could  save  and  plan  and 
manage  just  as  I'd  like !  And  I  will,  too !  I  will !" 

Without  another  glance  at  her  husband,  she  rose 
and  walked  into  the  house.  A  door  was  heard  to 
slam,  and  it  was  understood  by  those  of  her  house- 
hold, versed  in  her  ways,  that  she  had  retired  to  her 
own  chamber  for  a  season,  as  was  her  wont  when  in 
one  of  her  black  moods. 

It  was  two  or  three  hours  before  she  emerged,  and 
then  she  entered  the  kitchen,  tied  on  a  discarded 
apron,  and  resumed  her  various  customary  activities 
as  if  nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  the  routine  of 
her  day.  Her  face  had  resumed  its  usual  calm,  im- 


26o  SALLY    SALT 

passive  expression,  but  there  was  a  new  light  of  de- 
termination in  her  eyes. 

Hilda  stood  by  the  window,  she  had  looked  up 
when  her  mother  entered,  and  then  turned  again  to 
watch  the  bees  drifting  over  the  morning-glories 
which  clustered  about  the  frame  Idly  she  leaned 
there,  watching  the  delicate  color  trumpets  expand 
in  the  sunshine  She  had  begun  to  sing  a  few  mo- 
ments before,  half  under  her  breath,  but  had  grad- 
ually gone  on  until,  forgetful  of  herself,  she  had  let 
out  her  voice  to  its  full  volume  As  she  trilled 
happily  on  some  especially  high  note,  her  mother, 
who  had  been  casting  glances  at  her  full  of  a  somber 
irritation,  began  a  great  clatter  of  dishes,  exclaiming 
at  the  same  time  in  deep,  peremptory  tones  •  » 

"Hilda,  I  wish  you  would  shut  up!" 

Hilda  started  violently,  threw  a  half-frightened 
glance  at  her  mother,  and  ceased  in  the  middle  of  a 
trill,  then  made  a  movement  as  if  to  leave  the  room, 
but  Mrs.  Hurd  intercepted  her. 

"Hilda,"  she  said  suavely,  yet  with  that  deep, 
harsh  note  of  a  new  and  sinister  determination  run- 
ning through  her  voice,  "Hilda,  I  been  pretty  pa- 
tient. I  can  wait  as  good  as  anybody  in  the  world, 


HILDA   MAKES   CONFESSION      261 

and  I  find  that  it  usually  pays  me  to  be  patient ;  but 
there's  a  matter  that's  got  to  be  settled  between  you 
and  me,  and  I  guess  now  is  as  good  a  time  as  any  to 
talk  it  over.  I've  been  thinking  considerably  lately, 
and  it  strikes  me  that  a  guess  I've  got  is  pretty 
nearly  correct." 

The  girl  did  not  speak,  merely  shrank  back  more 
dosely  against  the  window-sill  and  elapsed  her 
hands  tightly  with  a  quick  involuntary  motion  upon 
her  breast. 

"Now,  one  of  the  things  I  want  to  know,"  her 
mother's  voice  went  on  evenly,  "is  why  you  never 
hear  from  Grissom?" 

Hilda  shivered  slightly  at  the  mention  of  his 
name,  the  soft  tea-rose  color  left  her  cheek,  but  she 
shook  her  head  without  answering. 

"Oh,  it  doesn't  do  any  good  to  shake  your  head 
and  not  answer  me,  because  I  mean  to  find  out," 
said  Maria  Hurd,  "and  you'll  gain  nothing  by  being 
obstinate.  Now  answer  me.  Why  did  Grissom 
never  come  back,  and  why  do  you  never  hear  from 
him?" 

But  Hilda  did  not  answer ;  merely  closed  her  lips 
and  gazed  far  above  her  mother's  head.  Her  eyes 


262  SALLY    SALT 

were  luminous  with  some  high  resolve,  but  her  lips 
trembled  a  little. 

Her  mother  walked  over  and  in  her  usual  leis- 
urely fashion  locked  the  door  and  put  the  key  in  her 
pocket.  She  knew  the  nature  with  which  she  had 
to  deal,  and  this  was  not  the  first  time  that  this  sort 
of  a  scene  had  been  enacted  between  them. 

"Come,  Hilda,"  she  said,  "you'd  better  answer 
quick;  there's  no  use  in  wasting  time." 

The  girl  made  no  answer  beyond  another  shake  of 
the  head.  Then  slowly  and  steadily  she  was  put 
under  fire.  Again  and  again  she  was  asked  the 
question  in  the  same  monotonous,  implacable  voice. 
Again  and  again  she  refused  to  answer. 

An  hour  ticked  by,  two  hours,  and  Hilda  began  to 
show  the  strain.  The  color  glowed  brilliantly  in 
her  cheeks  and  ears,  and  pulsed  up  and  down  her 
neck.  She  became  as  tense  as  a  highly  keyed  violin ; 
her  hands  began  to  tremble,  and  then  her  whole 
body. 

Two  hours  and  a  half.  The  whole  delicate  bal- 
ance of  her  nature  gave  way.  She  turned  at  bay, 
her  face  aflame,  her  eyes  sparkling  with  fire. 

"If  you  want  to  know !"  she  cried,  her  voice  high 


HILDA    MAKES    CONFESSION       263 

and  shrill  and  triumphant,  "if  you  want  to  know, 
I'll  tell  you  now,  when  it  can't  help  either  you  or 
Jake  Washburne  to  know.  I  overheard  you  and 
Jake  talking  the  night  you  planned,  oh,  God !  planned 
to  sell  Mr.  Grissom  for  money — not  because  either 
of  you  cared  whether  what  he  had  done  was  right 
or  wrong,  but  because  you  wanted  the  money.  That 
was  all  either  of  you  thought  of  in  your  cruel, 
wicked,  grasping  hearts.  But  I  overheard,  yes,  I 
did,  and  I  stole  out  and  sent  word  to  him,  and  now 
he  is  safe  from  you,  safe,  and  you'll  never  get  your 
money.  Never!" 

Mrs.  Kurd  stood  as  if  petrified,  her  face  growing 
whiter  and  whiter,  her  chest  heaving  in  long  breaths. 

"You  overheard  Jake  and  me,"  she  said  at  last,  as 
if  it  were  entirely  beyond  her  power  to  grasp  that 
fact  in  itself,  as  if  there  were  no  possibility  of  its 
having  reached  her  ears  correctly,  "and  you  went 
off  by  yourself  and  warned  Grissom,  sent  word  to 
him  not  to  come  back."  She  spoke  the  words  as  if 
they  were  incredible,  beyond  belief.  For  a  few 
silent  moments  she  surveyed  her  daughter  from  un- 
der frowning  brows,  curiously,  uncomprehendingly, 
as  if  she  had  really  never  seen  her  before. 


264  SALLY    SALT 

"You  heard  Jake  say  there  was  twenty-five  hun- 
dred dollars  in  it,  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  dollars 
apiece,  and  sure  money,  and  yet  you  crept  off  and 
warned  Grissom!"  Then  suddenly  her  slow,  in- 
credulous tone  was  merged  in  a  furious  utterance. 

"You  stole  it!  That's  what  you've  done — stole 
it  from  me,  your  mother!"  The  dead  white  of  her 
face  was  tinged  with  a  faint,  creeping  purple;  her 
voice  was  raucous,  and  she  put  her  hand  to  her 
throat,  as  if  she  felt  it  become  constricted  through 
the  violence  of  her  emotions. 

"Now,  let  me  tell  you,  you  can't  do  such  things. 
You  think  I'm  going  to  slave  and  cook  for  you,  and 
buy  the  very  clothes  that's  on  your  back,  to  have 
you  steal  twelve — hundred — dollars  from  me?"  Her 
whole  figure  went  flaccid  and  seemed  to  bow  and 
cringe  before  the  sum. 

"Twelve  hundred  dollars  snatched  right  out  of 
my  hand  by  a  worthless — !"  Her  voice  broke  in  a 
kind  of  choking  snarl.  Then  she  restrained  herself 
by  a  supreme  effort  of  will. 

"You  may  think  you're  grown  up,  Hilda — fine 
and  grown  up,  after  the  smart  trick  you've  played, 
but  you'll  find  out  different.  Oh,  what  have  I 


HILDA   MAKES    CONFESSION       265 

done!"  she  lifted  her  hands  and  shook  them  in  a 
frenzy,  "that  I  should  be  the  mother  of  such  a  whey- 
faced  fool !  It's  plain  to  be  seen  where  you  get  your 
craziness,  from  that  daft  father  of  yours.  Oh,  to 
think  of  the  years  that  I've  borne  with  you  both, 
worked  and  slaved  and  toiled  for  you !  And  what 
have  I  ever  got  out  of  either  of  you?  Have  you 
ever  been  anything  but  a  drag  and  a  burden  on  me  ? 
But  I've  stood  it  as  long  as  I'm  going  to.  Do  you 
hear?"  There  was  a  still  and  dreadful  menace  in 
her  voice.  She  walked  over,  and,  unlocking  the 
door,  threw  it  wide.  "The  only  reason  I've  kept 
you  around  was  because  of  the  looks  of  the  thing, 
but  that's  past  now — that's  past  for  ever  since  you 
stole  from  me — stole  twelve  hundred  and  fifty  dol- 
lars! You!" 

She  continued  to  regard  her  daughter  with  the 
same  odd  incredulity,  as  if  Hilda  were  a  thing  too 
monstrous  and  impossible  to  be  believed  in.  And, 
as  she  gazed,  some  violent  yet  still  convulsion  of 
nature  seemed  to  be  taking  place  in  her.  The  purple 
which  had  faintly  tinged  her  face  now  surged  up  it 
in  a  purple  tide;  for  a  second  she  swayed  back  and 
forth,  clenching  and  unclenching  her  hand,  and  then 


266  SALLY   SALT 

she  sprang  at  the  girl  with  the  hoarse,  snarling  cry 
of  some  wild  animal. 

"Get  out !  get  out !  and  never  let  me  see  your  face 
again !  Get  out  before  I  drive  you  out !" 

The  words  came  through  her  constricted  throat 
with  difficulty,  but  all  the  pent-up  antagonism  of  a 
lifetime  was  in  her  voice. 

Hilda  shrank  and  cowered.  To  her  excited 
vision  her  mother  suddenly  towered  above  her.  She 
was  like  some  baffled  beast  of  the  jungle,  her  lips 
slathered  with  foam,  her  great  arms  stretched  out- 
ward as  if  to  seize  her  prey,  her  fleshy  fingers  turned 
in  like  curving  claws.  And  Hilda  fled  like  a  fawn 
before  a  tigress,  and  heard,  as  she  ran  through  the 
garden  and  down  toward  the  meadows,  the  heavy 
slam  of  a  door  behind  her. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 

THE   QUEST   OF   THE   ROAD 

OVERPOWERED  by  terror,  Hilda  had  run  on 
and  on,  not  even  consciously  noting  the  direc- 
tion she  was  taking,  until  at  last,  from  sheer  in- 
ability to  run  longer,  she  stopped,  and,  panting  for 
breath,  looked  dazedly  about  her.  She  was  in  the 
heart  of  a  great  corn-field,  beneath  a  lowering  sky. 
The  corn  shocks  encompassed  her  and  seemed  to 
radiate  in  every  direction  from  the  point  on  which 
she  stood.  On  and  on  they  stretched,  their  long, 
unbroken  rows  savagely  yellow  under  the  rolling 
clouds,  blue-black  above  the  distant  hills. 

Hilda  stood  for  a  moment  gazing  wildly  about 
her,  drawing  long,  convulsive,  sobbing  breaths,  and 
then,  following  some  instinctive  impulse  to  seek 
shelter,  she  sank  down  beside  one  of  the  corn  shocks 
and  crouched  forlornly  against  it.  The  wind  rustled 
the  dry  leaves  of  the  corn,  the  whole  field  was  full 

267 


268  SALLY    SALT 

of  arid,  eery  whispers,  but  Hilda  did  not  hear  them. 
All  about  her,  strewn  over  the  brown  earth,  were 
great  pumpkins,  and  a  flock  of  blackbirds,  glistening 
metallically,  walked  mincingly  among  them,  but  she 
did  not  see  them.  No  plan  for  the  immediate  future 
came  to  her;  she  was  incapable  of  any  concentrated 
thought,  and  merely  cowered  there  in  a  maze  of  be- 
wilderment and  dull  misery. 

Finally  some  far-off  sound  attracted  her  atten- 
tion, and  involuntarily  she  lifted  her  head  to  listen. 
Faint  and  far  away  there  came  to  her  the  sound  of 
her  own  name.  "Hilda!  Hilda!"  a  plaintive,  qua- 
vering note  of  anxiety  and  helplessness.  Hilda's 
mental  processes  were  so  disorganized  that  she 
might  have  heard  many  repetitions  of  her  name  in 
an  unfamiliar  voice  and  paid  no  heed  to  them,  but 
now  her  heart,  her  sore  and  aching  heart,  responded 
at  once  to  that  anguished  appeal.  She  sprang  to  her 
feet  and  looked  about  her.  At  first  she  could  see 
nothing,  but,  gazing  steadily  in  the  direction  of  the 
repeated  call,  she  saw  her  father  surmount  a  little 
knoll  and  stand  peering  eagerly  over  the  field.  He 
was  hatless,  and  his  long  black  coat  and  white  beard 
were  blowing  in  the  wind.  Hilda  stumbled  over  the 


THE    QUEST    OF   THE   ROAD       269 

field  toward  him,  longing  to  reassure  and  comfort 
and  solace  him. 

"Father!  father!"  she  cried  high  and  clear,  and 
he,  hearing  and  seeing  her,  began  also  to  run. 
When  they  met,  with  a  little  cry  of  joy  he  folded  her 
tightly  in  his  arms. 

"Hilda,  my  little  Hilda,"  he  crooned  over  her, 
and  rocked  her  back  and  forth,  "I  didn't  know 
where  you  had  gone,  and  I've  looked  for  you  so 
long.  She,"  he  shuddered,  "she  told  me  she  had 
driven  you  out,  and  I  came,  too.  I — I  only  waited 
to  put  on  my  Sunday  coat,  Hilda." 

She  laughed  a  little  weeping  laugh  of  tender 
amusement.  "But  you  forgot  your  hat,  father," 
she  said,  and  pressed  her  cheek  more  deeply  into  his 
shoulder. 

"We've,  we've  been  turned  out,  Hilda."  He 
strove  to  speak  seriously,  but  there  was  a  sort  of 
excited  joy  in  his  voice  and  manner. 

"Oh,  father,  you  too!"  she  cried,  and,  clasping 
him  closer  still,  fell  to  an  almost  hysterical  sobbing. 

He  tenderly  stroked  her  hair.  "Don't  cry, 
Hilda,"  soothingly,  "my  little  honey.  There,  there. 
You'll  never  be  turned  out  by  your  father,  Hilda, 


270  SALLY    SALT 

and  Hilda — Hilda,  look  up  here."  There  was  a 
furtive,  wavering  smile  on  his  thin  lips,  a  shy  ex- 
ultation in  his  eyes,  as  if  he  were  about  to  tell  her 
some  wonderful  secret.  "The  world's  all  before  us, 
Hilda." 

The  world!  Hilda  lifted  her  head  and  looked 
about  her.  Long  rows  of  corn  shocks  under  a  dark, 
bending  sky;  the  trees  upholding  their  high  au- 
tumnal torches  on  the  far  hillsides,  and  beyond  them 
miles  of  forest  gloom,  and  then  more  unending  corn 
fields  and  waste  brown  meadows.  "The  world's  a 
long  way  off,  father." 

He  shook  his  head.  To  his  brooding  gaze  the 
towers  and  castles  of  his  eternal  city  of  romance 
shone  fair  before  his  eyes.  He  caught  the  nearer 

• 

gleam  of  its  beauty  in  the  fugitive  shimmer  of  sun- 
light that  broke  through  the  clouds  and  played  for  a 
moment  about  them. 

"Why,  the  city  is  quite  near,  Hilda,"  he  said  im- 
patiently, "not  a  long  distance  by  rail,  and  if  we 
should  walk — " 

But  the  timid  spirit  of  Hilda,  more  practical,  be- 
cause more  feminine,  protested.  "What  shall  we 
do  after  we  get  there?"  she  asked  ptteously. 


THE   QUEST   OF   THE   ROAD       271 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise,  as  if  perplexed  at 
her  stupidity.  "Why,  there's  plenty  to  do  in  the 
city,"  he  replied,  an  answer  which,  however  vague 
to  another,  was  yet  completely  satisfactory  to  him- 
self. "Come  on,  Hilda," 

Her  spirit  was  only  a  little,  only  a  very  little,  more 
practical  than  his  own,  so,  with  no  more  thought  of 
further  protestation,  she  turned  and  they  started  off 
together.  The  old  man's  gaze  was  almost  ecstatic 
as  he  swept  the  landscape.  "Do  you  remember 
what  the  Lord  said  to  Moses,  Hilda  ?  'Go  forward !' 
Well,  the  Lord  speaks  to  us  now  the  same  as  He  did 
then." 

"Yes,  father,"  she  answered  obediently,  trudging 
beside  him. 

"The  shortest  way  to  the  city  is  by  the  river 
road,"  said  the  old  man.  "It  will  take  about  three 
days  of  steady  walking,  Hilda.  We  shall  have  fine 
weather,"  buoyantly,  although  there  was  nothing  in 
the  signs  of  the  sky  to  presage  any  such  a  condition, 
"and  people  along  the  way  will  give  us  something  to 
eat  and  let  us  sleep  in  their  barns."  His  eyes 
glowed  with  the  light  of  adventure.  "Ah,  Hilda," 
his  eager  stride  took  him  a  foot  or  two  ahead  or  her, 


272  SALLY    SALT 

the  words  were  blown  back  over  his  shoulder  to  her, 
"we're  going  there,  out  into  the  world  that  I  have 
always  dreamed  about,  but  I  never  could  get  away 
from  here  before,  and  now,  at  last,  I'm  going  to  find 
out  what  lies  beyond  the  hills." 

And  Hilda's  heart,  too,  began  to  rise,  and,  harp 
that  she  was,  she  vibrated  in  unison  with  the  strong 
hand  that  swept  the  strings.  Under  the  stimulus  of 
his  words  she,  too,  felt  the  glow  and  excitement  that 
the  thought  of  those  beckoning,  twinkling  lights  of 
the  distant  city  aroused. 

As  they  turned  into  the  river  road  Hilda  pointed 
out  to  her  father  the  many  signs  of  warning  to 
trespassers. 

"It  is  John  Witherspoon's  land,"  he  replied.  "He 
probably  wishes  to  preserve  the  quail." 

The  blue-black  clouds  so  long  massed  on  the  hori- 
zon were  now  rolling  overhead;  the  storm  was  im- 
minent ;  it  was  a  matter  of  a  few  moments  before  it 
was  upon  them;  but  the  thick  growth  of  the  trees 
broke  the  long  sweep  of  the  rising  wind,  and  in  the 
woods  it  was  like  a  low,  monotonous  sob. 

"I  hear  some  one  coming,"  said  Hilda  suddenly, 
pausing  and  glancing  about  her. 


THE   QUEST    OF   THE   ROAD       273 

"Do  you?"  said  her  father.  "No  doubt."  He, 
too,  stopped  and  waited,  listening. 

There  was  the  faint  sound  of  dry  leaves  and 
twigs  crackling  under  an  advancing  footfall;  nearer 
it  came,  and  then,  turning  the  angle  of  the  road, 
appeared  Anthony  Streatham.  He  did  not  at  first 
see  the  old  man  and  the  girl.  He  was  whistling 
softly,  his  eyes  bent  on  the  ground.  In  one  hand  he 
held  a  rod,  and  in  the  other  a  string  of  fish,  gleam- 
ing silver. 

He  started  involuntarily  at  the  sight  of  the  in- 
truders, twisted  his  mouth  in  a  vexed  grimace,  and 
then,  with  a  characteristic  shrug  of  the  shoulders, 
fatalistically  accepting  the  inevitable,  and  at  the 
same  time  disclaiming  all  responsibility  and  shifting 
it  to  the  knees  of  the  gods,  where  it  belonged,  he 
greeted  them  with  his  delightful  smile. 

But  Hilda  stared  at  him  as  one  raised  from  the 
dead.  "Why,"  she  stammered,  "why,  when  did  you 
come  back,  Mr.  Streatham?" 

"Ah,  that  is  a  long  story.  Tell  me  first,"  he  said, 
to  gain  time,  "what  you  two  are  doing  here  so  far 
from  home,  and  at  this  hour  in  the  evening?" 

Hilda's  head  sank  shamedly,  and  the  deep  color 


274  SALLY    SALT 

tinged  even  her  brow ;  but  Mr.  Kurd  drew  himself 
up  magnificently.  "My  daughter  and,  I  are  about  to 
travel;  in  fact,  we  are  going  to  the  city." 

"But  you  are  not  walking  ?" 

"We  thought  of  doing  so ;  it  seemed  the  pleasanter 
way,"  said  Mr.  Kurd. 

Anthony's  eyebrows  and  shoulders  went  up  im- 
perceptibly, but,  as  ever,  he  was  quick  to  take  his 
cue. 

"Ah,  the  quest  of  the  open  road!"  he  said  pleas- 
antly. "There  is  nothing  like  it.  Under  those  cir- 
cumstances, I  shall  insist  on  your  making  the  first 
break  in  your  journey  by  taking  supper  with  me  and 
stopping  the  night.  Yonder,  through  the  trees,  is 
my  lodge  in  the  wilderness." 

He  indicated  a  little  cabin,  half  hidden  by  trees, 
and  standing  on  the  rocky  ledge  above  the  river.  It 
was  the  same  hut  to  which  he  and  Sally  had  ridden 
months  before  in  her  search  for  more  laborers — the 
same,  but  vastly  improved. 

Hilda  and  her  father,  entering  the  low  door, 
broke  into  simultaneous  exclamations  of  pleasure. 
The  place  was  neat  and  shipshape  to  a  degree,  clean 
as  a  pin,  and  with  an  odd  sort  of  attractiveness.  A 


THE   QUEST    OF   THE   ROAD       275 

little  fire  of  logs  burned  on  the  hearth.  There  was 
a  table  with  books,  a  couch  covered  with  a  bright 
Navajo  blanket  and  some  pillows,  even  a  small 
piano,  and  on  the  rough  walls  pine  branches,  the 
green  tracery  of  beauty,  permeating  the  air  with 
their  faint,  aromatic  fragrance. 

"Here,  Hilda."  Streatham  had  drawn  a  large 
chair  near  the  fire,  and  with  a  fleeting  glance  of 
gratitude  Hilda  sank  wearily  into  it.  Her  fair  head 
fell  back  among  the  pillows ;  her  lashes  lay  long  on 
her  cheeks;  there  were  deep  bluish  shadows  about 
her  eyes. 

Anthony  busied  himself  for  a  moment  or  two 
lighting  a  lamp.  "Now,  Mr.  Kurd,  here  are  some 
books  and  papers,  if  you  care  to  look  them  over 
while  I  get  supper." 

Hilda  half  rose  as  if  to  offer  her  assistance,  but 
Streatham  laid  a  hand  on  her  shoulder  and  pressed 
her  gently  back  into  her  chair.  "No,  Hilda ;  remem- 
ber that  to-night  you  are  my  guest,  and  that  I  am 
your  humble  servitor,  and  later,  just  to  gratify  a 
certain  absurd  sense  of  honesty  which  I  see  lurking 
in  your  eyes,  you  shall  pay  for  your  supper,  oh  lady 
of  the  silver  voice.  Now  I  shall  go  to  my  little 


276  SALLY    SALT 

kitchen  here  in  the  rear,  and  you  are  not  to  peep; 
you  are  to  do  nothing  until  you  are  summoned." 

Hilda,  pale  Hilda,  could  hardly  murmur  her  grat- 
itude, and  Anthony  vanished  into  the  kitchen,  not  to 
appear  again  until  he  stood  in  the  doorway,  half  an 
hour  later,  with  the  odors  of  coffee  and  frying  fish 
wafting  pleasantly  about  him,  and,  flourishing  a 
fork  with  a  grand  air,  announced  that  supper  was 
served. 

Among  his  various  accomplishments,  he  had  car- 
ried the  art  of  cookery  to  a  high  degree  of  perfec- 
tion, but  his  conversation  did  more  to  revive  and 
restore  Hilda  than  food.  In  listening  to  his  jests 
and  banter  she  forgot  the  tragedy  of  the  morning; 
and  then  she  relied  instinctively  on  the  strength  and 
judgment  which  would  devise  comfort  for  them, 
would  save  them,  although  she  would  not  have  ad- 
mitted this  intuitive  conclusion  even  to  herself,  from 
the  pitfalls  of  her  father's  star-gazing  optimism. 

Streatham  accepted  readily  enough  her  offer  of 
assistance  after  supper.  He  intended  by  a  few  ju- 
dicious questions  to  discover  the  cause  of  the  Hurd 
exodus — not  a  difficult  matter,  as  it  proved.  He 
was  one  of  the  few  people  to  whom  Hilda  could 


THE    QUEST    OF   THE   ROAD       277 

always  talk  freely,  and  now  she  hastened  to  pour 
forth  her  confidence. 

He  lifted  his  shoulders  higher  about  the  ears  than 
he  usually  managed  to  do  in  a  shrug,  and  twisted  his 
mouth  almost  up  to  one  eye.  As  Sally  had  once 
said,  when  nothing  else  happened  the  Hurds  were 
sure  to.  This  was  a  situation,  he  reflected,  which 
he  would  certainly  not  have  gone  on  winged  feet  to 
meet,  but  since  it  had  come  to  him  there  was  nothing 
to  do  but  accept  it,  at  least  for  the  present. 

"Hilda,"  he  said,  "you  can  not  journey  to  town 
with  your  father.  I  am  sorry  to  destroy  his  and 
incidentally  your  dreams  of  strolling  along  the  sun- 
lit roads,  while  the  farmers  en  route  chain  up  the 
dog  at  the  sight  of  you  and  rush  out  to  meet  you 
with  flagons  of  milk  in  one  hand  and  bread  and 
honey  in  the  other,  and  of  sleeping  in  fragrant  straw 
beside  blossoming  hedge-rows  beneath  the  golden 
moon;  but  I'm  afraid  your  journey  ends  here, 
Hilda." 

She  shook  her  head,  a  slight  disappointed  droop 
to  her  mouth.  "Father  will  go  on  now,"  she  said, 
"now  that  he  really  can,  that  there  is  nothing  to  stop 
him." 


278  SALLY   SALT 

"I  shall  stop  him.  If  I  let  him  go,  I'd  be  as 
morally  responsible  as  a  mother  who  would  put  a 
new-born  babe  to  sleep  on  a  railway  track/' 

"He  will  go,"  she  insisted. 

Anthony  lifted  his  eyebrows  almost  to  the  roots 
of  his  hair.  "Father  will  be  managed,"  he  said 
gently.  "Hilda,  you've  never  seen  a  play,  have  you  ? 
You  shall  see  one  now.  Come,  you  shall  have  what 
will  appear  to  you  the  large  easy  chair  by  the  fire, 
but  which  is  in  reality  the  stage  box;  and  you  shall 
see,  without  any  preliminary  bursts  from  the  or- 
chestra, the  curtain  rise  on  'The  Management  of 
Father.' " 

Hilda  laughed  irrepressibly,  but  her  eyes  were 
puzzled.  "I  hardly  ever  understand  you,  Mr. 
Streatham,  but  what  you  say  always  makes  me 
laugh.  I  like  the  sound  of  it." 

He  stopped  and  looked  at  her  closely  from  under 
his  eyebrows,  nodding  his  head  the  while.  "That  is 
you,"  he  said.  "Hilda,  I  have  discovered  you.  You 
take  in  everything  by  the  sound.  You  see  nothing. 
You  have  ears  and  a  voice,  but  no  eyes.  But  come, 
the  curtain  rises.  '  'Tis  not  alone  my  inky  cloak, 
good  mother.'  'On  such  a  night,  Jessica.' ' 


THE   QUEST    OF   THE   ROAD       279 

Mr.  Hurd  sat  reading  by  the  light  of  the  lamp, 
completely  absorbed  in  his  book.  He  put  it  down 
with  some  reluctance  when  Hilda  and  Anthony 
finally  made  their  presence  knovyn  to  him.  "A  beau- 
tiful book,"  he  said  wistfully,  "a  very  beautiful 
book.  I  am  afraid  I  shall  not  have  time  to  finish  it, 
however.  We  must  get  an  early  start  to-morrow 
morning." 

"Ah,"  said  Anthony,  leaning  forward,  as  if  the 
matter  had  just  occurred  to  him,  "that  is  a  question 
I. wish  to  discuss  with  you.  Let  us,  tiresomely,  I 
admit,  descend  to  practicalities.  Here  are  three  of 
us  whom  chance  has  brought  together.  You  two 
are  going  on  to  town.  I  would  gladly  go  with  you, 
but  my  travels  have  taught  me  that  he  who  would 
pass  through  the  world  easily  must  have  a  passport 
in  the  shape  of  a  coin  always  ready.  Now,  when  I 
start  out  to  do  a  thing,  build  a  fire,  for  instance,  I 
don't  want  to  be  hampered  every  minute  for  lack  of 
wood ;  and,  comrades  on  the  road,  there  is  my  entire 
capital."  He  threw  on  the  table  a  handful  of  silver. 

Mr.  Hurd,  involuntarily  following  his  example, 
searched  in  his  pockets,  and  then  searched  again. 
At  last  he  looked  up  with  an  expression  of  surprise 


28o  SALLY   SALT 

not  unmingled  with  sheepishness.  c'Why,  why,  I 
had  some  money,  several  dollars,  I  think.  Why, 
Hilda—" 

"Yes,  father,  but  you  changed  your  coat." 
He  drew  his  long-tailed,  old-fashioned  coat  about 
him  and  looked  down  at  it  in  a  puzzled  sort  of  way. 
"Why,  so  I  did,  Hilda,  so  I  did." 

"That  settles  it."  Anthony  rubbed  his  chin  and 
smiled  at  Hilda,  "There  will  be  no  play.  I  am 
sorry  to  disappoint  you,  my  child,  but  the  curtain  is 
rung  down  before  it  goes  up,  to  speak  the  ancient 
Celtic  tongue.  That  is  usually  the  way.  Destiny 
will  decide  most  of  our  problems  for  us  if  we  will 
only  let  her.  Now,  the  state  of  my  exchequer,  at 
present,  entirely  precludes  the  idea  of  my  financing 
this  Argonautic  expedition.  Then'  this  is  the  situ- 
ation." He  addressed  his  remarks  now  exclusively 
to  Mr.  Hurd,  speaking  with  convincing  gravity.  "I 
know  the  city  thoroughly,  and  if  I  could  accompany 
you  on  your  journey  I  could  act  admirably  as  your 
guide;  "but,  owing  to  the  slimness  of  my  purse,  it  is 
impossible  for  me  to  go  now.  I  am  here,  I  should 
explain,  to  do  some  special  writing.  Witherspoon 
Jent  me  this  cottage  that  I  might  have  the  necessary 


THE   QUEST    OF    THE    ROAD       281 

seclusion,  and  for  the  next  few  weeks  I  must  keep 
at  it  very  steadily ;  consequently,  it  would  be  a  tre- 
mendous help  to  me  if  you  and  Hilda  would  consent 
to  remain  here  temporarily.  Hilda  shall  take  care 
of  the  household  duties,"  there  was  a  faint  twinkle 
in  Anthony's  eyes,  "and  you  can  assist  me  in  the 
heavier  tasks,  hewing  the  wood  and  carrying  water ; 
and  then  I  shall  write,  and  you  shall  read,  and  I  hope 
that  there  will  be  many  times  when  we  may  con- 
verse. How  does  it  strike  you?" 

Mr.  Hurd  leaned  his  head  on  his  hand  and  con- 
sidered, his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire.  Some  of  their 
luminous  glow  had  vanished.  He  was  very  tired, 
and  the  city  of  his  dreams  was  a  long  way  off.  He 
hated  to  defer  his  quest  of  life  by  even  an  hour; 
nevertheless,  he  could  not  conceal  the  fact  that  his 
pleasure  would  be  greatly  enhanced  by  the  society 
of  this  cheery,  congenial  companion,  this  man  who 
knew  the  purlieus  of  the  world. 

"It  would  certainly  delay  us  a  little  in  our  jour- 
'ney,"  he  hesitated. 

"But  not  for  long,  father."  The  light  had  re- 
turned to  Hilda's  eyes,  the  color  to  her  cheeks.  She 
laid  one  hand  appealingly  on  his  knee.  "Just  for  a 


282  SALLY    SALT 

little  while,  and  Mr.  Streatham  will  go  with  us 
then." 

Again  the  old  man  looked  about  him;  he  was 
tired,  tireder  than  he  had  thought,  and  here  was 
peace  and  comfort,  and  books,  and  the  companion- 
ship of  this  delightful  scamp.  The  ivory  towers 
and  purple  distances,  the  roaring  streets  all  dusk 
and  spangled  with  lights,  grew  a  little  dimmer.  He 
laid  his  white  head  back  against  the  chair.  "I  have 
an  idea,"  he  said  to  Anthony,  "that  in  this  instance 
your  wisdom  exceeds  mine." 

Hilda  smiled  at  him  radiantly. 

"Now,  Hilda,"  said  Streatham,  "pay  for  your 
supper.  Sing." 


CHAPTER   XIX 

ANTHONY'S  STRANGE  LETTER 

AJNT  MANDY,"  asked  Sally,  one  morning, 
"how  does  it  happen  that  every  time  I  enter 
the  kitchen  I  meet  Uncle  Poodle  either  coming  in  or 
going  out,  or  else  comfortably  ensconced  by  the 
stove.  Have  you  at  last  given  your  consent  to  Wil- 
merdine's  wooing?" 

"Lawd!  Miss  Sally,  you  go  on."  Aunt  Mandy 
waved  a  dish  towel  in  the  air  and  chuckled,  well 
pleased.  "Didn't  I  tole  you  dat  I  had  my  own  plan 
fo'  de  subduin'  of  Wilmerdine?  Jus'  'cause  I  spile 
dat  girl,  an'  you  spile  her,  an'  she  grows  up  so  purty 
an'  have  so  many  beaux  dat  her  haid  is  clean  turned 
around  on  her  shoulders,  is  dat  any  reason  we  all 
got  to  keep  on  spilin'  her?  No'm,  no  ma'am!"  em- 
phatically. "I  was  certainly  one  of  dese  yer  po' 
dotin'  mothahs,  jus'  like  hundreds  of  othahs,  pleased 
as  Punch  to  see  Wilmerdine  queenin'  it  over  a  lot 

283 


284  SALLY    SALT 

of  nice,  likely  boys.  But  when  I  saw  her  startin'  in 
after  Uncle  Poodle,  why,  dat  was  de  cuff  on  de  ear 
dat  wake  dis  sleepin'  princess  right  up.  For  I  saw 
then  dat  she  had  not  growed  beyond  a  mothah's 
love  an'  care. 

"Well,  I  give  de  mattah  considerable  study,  Miss 
Sally,  an'  I  come  to  dis  conclusion.  Blossom !"  she 
broke  off  to  address  her  large  gray  cat,  "ef  you  can't 
keep  from  gettin'  under  my  feet,  I'm  goin'  to  break 
dis  yer  broomstick  over  yo'  back.  Now  yo'  mind. 
I  was  tellin'  yo',  Miss  Sally,  dat  I  come  to  dis  con- 
clusion: Uncle  Poodle,  self -respectable  as  he  is, 
an'  proud  of  his  position  of  bein'  one  of  de  bes'  ex- 
horters  in  de  chu'ch,  is  only  a  man  at  bes',  jus'  like 
a  mouse  is  only  a  mouse,  an'  no  mattah  how  smart 
and  quick  on  his  foots  he  is,  sooner  or  later  de  cat 
dat's  watchin'  him's  goin'  to  get  him.  Den,"  she 
paused  dramatically,  "I  jus'  walked  in  myself." 

"No!"  cried  Sally,  flatteringly  impressed  by  this 
evidence  of  strategic  genius.  "Who  ever  heard  of 
such  a  thing  ?"  She  burst  into  a  peal  of  laughter. 

"Dat's  right,"  affirmed  Aunt  Mandy  proudly. 
"Ain't  yo'  noticed  how  I  been  settin'  up  to  him? 
He  is  fond  of  a  dish  of  bacon  an'  greens  cooked  jus* 


ANTHONY'S    STRANGE   LETTER     285 

so,  an'  a  cup  of  coffee  he  do  dearly  love.  So  when 
I  see  him  comin'  up  from  de  gyarden,  kin'  o'  hot 
an'  tired  wid  weedin'  or  hoein'  or  such  like,  I'd 
station  myself  in  de  window  wid  a  steamin'  coffee 
pot  held  kind  o'  absent-like  in  one  hand,  an'  den  he'd 
kind  o'  sniff  an'  go  slow,  an'  I'd  say,  as  surprised 
as  yo'  please,  'Oh,  Uncle  Poodle,  is  dat  you  ?  I  was 
jus'  pourin'  myself  a  cup  o'  coffee;  won't  yo'  jine 
me?'  Well,  once  here,  wid  a  plate  o'  batter  cakes 
before  him,  an'  no  stint  of  butter  an'  molasses,  he 
wasn't  in  no  hurry  to  leave,  I  can  tell  you  dat,  Miss 
Sally.  An'  bimeby,  when  he'd  et  through  dis  or  dat 
knick-knack,  he'd  be  ready  to  talk,  an'  we'd  begin 
on  de  chu'ch,  discussin'  or  disputin'  how  dis  or  dat 
difficulty  is  goin'  to  be  met  an'  dat  expense  faced. 
All  such  subjects,  yo'  know,  dat  his  mind's  full  of, 
an'  dat  Wilmerdine  ain't  got  no  grasp  on  at  all. 
Why,  dat  man  has  set  here  by  de  hour  in  de  even- 
in's,  relatin'  his  speritual  experiences  an'  cogitatin' 
on  dis  brothah  or  dat  sistah  dat  has  backslid  in 
ways  dat  it  ain't  fitten  fo'  no  young  girl  like  Wii- 
merdine  to  be  discussin'. 

"When  Wilmerdine  see  how  things  is  goin',  she 
kin'  o'  open  her  eyes,  I  can  tell  you.     Dat  girl,  she 


286  SALLY    SALT 

thinks  she  know  it  all,  Miss  Sally,  'cause  she  ain't 
never  had  no  trouble  in  twistin'  every  boy  she  meet 
around  her  fingers;  but  she  findin'  out  now  how. lit- 
tle she  really  know  ob  de  world.  She  thought  all 
she  got  to  do  to  catch  any  man  was  to  roll  her  big 
eyes  at  him,  an'  when  she  see  Uncle  Poodle  was 
payin'  no  'tention  to  her  tricks,  why,  she  kin'  o' 
console  herself  wid  de  reflection  dat  Uncle  Poodle 
was  so  old  and  pious  dat  he  couldn't  set  up  to  any- 
body; but  it  seems  like  her  po'  ol'  mothah  was  di- 
vinely app'inted  to  show  her  different. 

"Why,  Miss  Sally,  yesterday,  when  Uncle  Poodle 
was  a-settin'  here  by  de  stove  samplin'  some  plum 
pie  dat  I  had  jus'  turned  out,  an'  kin'  o'  sippin'  at  a 
glass  ob  milk  dat  was  more'n  half  cream,  I  could  see 
in  his  eyes  dat  he  was  turnin'  over  an'  over  in  his 
mind  ef  he  wouldn't  be  askin'  me  to  marry  him." 

"Marry  him!"  echoed  Sally  dazedly.  "Aunt 
Mandy,  you  wouldn't  think  of  such  a  thing." 

"  'Deed,  no,  Miss  Sally.  I'm  too  old  to  bother 
my  head  'bout  any  man.  I  past  de  time  when  I'm 
willin'  to  caper  an'  keep  'em  in  a  good  humor  an' 
feed  'em  up.  No,  ma'am.  I  wants  to  set  down  by 
de  stove  when  my  work's  done  an'  smoke  my  pipe 


ANTHONY'S    STRANGE   LETTER     287 

an'  doze.  Me  an'  Blossom  was  talkin'  things  over 
las'  night.  I  says,  'Blossom,  what  kin'  ob  a  fool  do 
yo'  think  I'd  be  to  undertake  the  care  ob  any  rheu- 
matic ol'  niggah  at  my  time  of  life?'  an'  Blossom 
she  look  up  at  me  an'  kin'  o'  wink  her  eye  and  den 
shet  'em  tight  again,  an'  fold  her  paws  under  her 
an'  doze.  No,  ma'am;  my  days  of  botherin'  wid 
de  men  folks  is  over,  an'  I'm  glad  of  it,  too." 

"I  can  see  that  Wilmerdine  looks  at  you  with  a 
new  respect,"  said  Sally. 

"She'd  better."     Aunt  Mandy  chuckled  afresh. 

At  this  moment  Wilmerdine  entered  and  an- 
nounced to  Sally  that  Mr.  Witherspoon  wished  to 
see  her,  and  Sally  went  out  on  the  porch,  where 
Witherspoon  stood  on  the  step  awaiting  her,  his 
horse's  bridle  over  his  arm.  It  struck  Sally  that  he 
looked  a  little  constrained,  and  his  manner,  in  a 
way,  bore  out  his  appearance. 

"Good  morning,"  she  said.  "Are  you  and  Lucy 
off  for  a  ride?" 

"Yes,  I  am  waiting  for  her." 

"One  is  always  waiting  for  Lucy,"  laughed  Sally. 
"But  we  have  to  admit  that  when  she  does  appear 
the  results  justify  the  delay." 


288  SALLY    SALT 

"But,  after  all,"  Witherspoon  said,  "it  was  you  I 
particularly  wished  to  see."  The  constraint  which 
she  had  felt  so  unmistakably  was  visible  now  in  his 
voice.  It  was  almost  embarrassed. 

"Me !"  cried  Sally,  opening  her  eyes. 

"Yes."  He  searched  in  his  pocket  a  moment. 
"I  have  something  for  you,  a  letter  which  was  in- 
closed in  one  I  received." 

Sally  grew  white  under  all  her  tan.  Slowly  she 
stretched  out  her  hand.  "Please  give  it  to  me,"  she 
said,  and  turning,  without  even  a  word  of  thanks, 
left  him. 

Down  through  her  summer  garden  she  went,  a 
waste  and  desolate  place,  its  glory  departed,  its  color 
and  perfume  but  a  memory.  One  day  they  had 
flung  their  challenge  of  beauty  at  the  sunlight,  and 
the  next  they  were  fallen  under  the  blight  of  frost, 
ready  for  Uncle  Poodle's  scythe  and  pruning-hook. 
The  brown  beds  and  trim  paths  were  all  in  their 
decorous  and  depressing  winter  order,  and  Sally 
passed  rapidly  through  them  down  to  her  sheltered 
and  still  splendid  chrysanthemum  borders,  the  won- 
derful gardens  of  autumn.  She  sat  down  on  a 
seat  under  a  maple  tree;  the  gold  and  flame  of  its 


ANTHONY'S    STRANGE   LETTER     289 

leaves  fell  softly  through  the  air;  the  dreamy  late 
October  sunshine  lay  on  her  red  hair,  and  there  she 
opened  and  read  Streatham's  letter. 

So  he  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  world !  It  was 
a  long  letter.  Some  of  the  paragraphs  were  writ- 
ten at  sea,  some  were  from  Paris,  one  or  two  from 
London,  and  one  was  from  Rome.  He  had  written 
exactly  as  if  they  had  never  parted,  as  if  she  had 
never  driven  him  from  her. 

"Sally  of  my  heart,  is  it  really  true  that  I  am  here 
and  you  are  there?  Incredible!  Away  from  you 
now,  when  'the  days  take  on  a  mellower  tint,  and 
the  apple  at  last  hangs  really  finished  and  indolent 
ripe  on  the  tree'  ?  Again  I  say,  incredible ! 

"I  was  dowered  at  birth  with  the  wanderlust,  but 
do  you  know,  in  its  last  analysis,  what  the  wander- 
lust really  is?  It  is  the  imperative,  overwhelming 
desire  to  get  away  from  'here.'  It  doesn't  really 
matter  in  the  least  where  'here'  happens  to  be;  the 
wanderlust  is  an  unspeakable  longing  to  get  away 
from  it.  And  now  that  I  am  here  and  ready  to  start 
off  at  a  moment's  notice  for  that  vanishing  'there,' 
with  which  I  never  seem  to  catch  up,  and  which, 
like  to-morrow,  is  always  beyond  me,  I  discover 


290  SALLY    SALT 

hourly  what  I  have  always  known  from  the  first 
minute  I  saw  you — that  all  I  really  want  in  the 
world  is  to  be  with  you,  you,  Sally  darling,  with 
you,  where  'here'  and  'there'  meet.  'Oh,  love  and 
summer,  you  are  in  the  dreams  and  in  me.' 

"When  are  you  going  to  send  for  me,  Sally? 
Soon,  soon — " 

She  dropped  the  letter  and  clenched  her  teeth.  "I 
can't — I  can't  bear  it !"  she  cried.  "As  if  you  had 
done  nothing!  As  if  you  were  forgiving  me,  and 
overlooking  my  conduct!  As  if  I  had  sent  you 
away  for  a  mere  whim!" 

She  was  pale  no  longer ;  the  high,  hot  color  flamed 
in  her  cheeks ;  her  eyes  flashed.  She  read  no  more, 
but,  folding  the  letter,  thrust  it  in  the  bosom  of  her 
gown  and  strode  up  toward  the  house,  frowning, 
muttering,  flushing  and  paling — in  a  fine  temper,  in 
short. 

Upon  the  porch  were  a  little  group  of  three — Mrs. 
Nesbit,  Mrs.  Hill  and  Anne — all  sitting  with  their 
heads  together  in  the  full  tide  of  a  discussion,  so 
earnest  and  absorbed  that  an  observer  would  have 
been  justified  in  predicting  the  element  of  scandal. 

Mrs.  Hill  had  flung  her  bonnet  strings  back  over 


ANTHONY'S    STRANGE   LETTER     291 

her  shoulders,  and  had  now  firmly  grasped  her  um- 
brella. There  was  an  air  of  almost  majestic  im- 
portance about  her,  a  zest,  an  eagerness,  as  if  one 
who,  having  been  long  compelled  to  make  the  most 
of  what  little  she  had — spread  the  butter  thin,  in 
fact — had  at  last  not  only  a  plenitude  of  butter,  but 
was  also  prepared  to  dispense  jam  with  a  generous 
hand.  And  she  held  her  audience,  there  was  no 
doubt  of  that.  Mrs.  Nesbit,  huddled  in  shawls  and 
with  a  crochetted  white  and  pink  fascinator  thrown 
over  her  head,  its  point  dangling  over  her  nose,  was 
leaning  forward  with  a  sort  of  frightened  eager- 
ness. Anne  sat  uncompromisingly  upright,  the 
slight  frown  upon  her  brow  negatived  by  the  faintly 
complacent  and  superior  smile  upon  her  lips. 

As  an  experienced  purveyor  of  news,  Mrs.  Hill 
was  not  one  to  hurl  down  the  bone  and  then  watch 
the  dogs  worry  it.  That  is,  to  phrase  it  in  the  lan- 
guage of  the  drawing-room,  she  did  not  announce 
her  knowledge  and  then  listen,  well  content,  to  the 
endless  discussion  of  it  from  those  to  whom  she 
proffered  it.  Far  from  it.  Her  methods  were 
more  subtle,  more  civilized,  even  cultivated.  She 
tempted  the  palate,  disdaining  no  humble  little  appe- 


292  SALLY    SALT 

tizers;  then,  through  the  lighter  courses  of  soup, 
fish,  an  entree  or  so,  she  led  up  to  her  piece  dc 
resistance,  the  solid,  substantial  roast. 

On  ascending  the  steps  to  the  porch,  where  Mrs. 
Nesbit  sat  sunning  herself  in  the  mild,  pale  sun- 
shine for  an  hour  or  two,  and,  because  October  had 
reached  its  end,  had  wrapped  herself  in  shawls,  and 
where  Anne  sat  beside  her,  making  some  notes  on  a 
volume  she  held  in  hand,  she  had  accepted  the  offer 
of  a  chair,  refused  to  go  indoors,  untied  her  bonnet 
strings,  and  panted  a  moment  or  two  before  essay- 
ing any  continuous  conversation. 

"Yes,  it's  a  nice  morning,"  in  response  to  Mrs. 
Nesbit's  timid  bleat  in  praise  of  the  day,  "but  it 
ain't  seasonable,  and  it  ain't  healthy.  Keeps  on 
like  this,  we'll  have  a  green  Christmas,  and,"  with  a 
long-drawn  sigh,  "you  know  what  that  means — a 
fat  churchyard.  Well,"  with  another  long  sigh,  "I 
guess,  whether  Christmas  is  green  or  white,  the 
churchyard  won't  be  so  slim  this  year.  One  of  the 
Smith  twins  is  down  with  scarlet  fever,  a  bad  case, 
they  say,  and  I  stopped  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Potter  a 
minute  at  her  gate,  and  she  says  her  cough's  worse 
than  it's  been  for  twenty  years.  She  says  if  it's  like 


ANTHONY'S    STRANGE   LETTER     293 

'tis  now,  what  will  it  be  in  February  and  March? 
I  didn't  tell  her  so,  but  she  needn't  bother  her  head 
about  February  or  March.  She  won't  last  that  long. 
She  had  to  hold  on  to  the  gate  posts  while  she  was 
talking  to  me.  You  never  heard  a  more  rattling 
cough,  Melinda." 

"Is  that  so?"  said  Mrs.  Nesbit  "Why,  I  must 
get  right  over  to  see  her." 

"Yes,  Melinda,  go,"  replied  Mrs.  Hill,  "and  I'd 
advise  you  to  go  soon.  Had  you  heard  that  that 
Jennison  girl,  the  oldest  one,  was  going  into  a  de- 
cline ?  I  thought  if  I  felt  pretty  good  I'd  walk  over 
this  afternoon  and  take  a  look  at  her.  Hm-m,  what 
makes  you  look  so  peaked,  Melinda  ?" 

"Me?"  Mrs.  Nesbit's  nerves  were  not  proof 
against  the  question  and  the  cold  steady  searchlight 
of  Mrs.  Hill's  glance,  which  seemed  to  discover  an 
organic  weakness  wherever  she  gazed.  "I — I  never 
felt  better  in  my  life." 

"You'd  ought  to  take  care  of  yourself,"  said  Mrs. 
Hill  in  calm,  unconvinced  tones.  "I  don't  think 
I've  ever  seen  you  look  any  worse.  A  tonic  might 
help,  but  I  dunno,"  shaking  her  head  lugubriously. 
"Well,  you  ain't  the  only  one  that's  got  troubles. 


294  SALLY    SALT 

I  stopped  to  see  Mrs.  Hurd  a  minute,  and  it  seems 
she's  all  alone  there  with  Harris.  Hilda  and  her 
father  gone  traipsin'  off  somewhere,  and  just  to 
show  you  what  that  poor  woman  has  to  put  up  with, 
Mrs.  Nesbit,  they  never  even  told  her  they  meant  to 
go,  and  she's  no  idea  on  earth  where  they've  gone. 
Oh,  they're  the  crazy  pair.  I  tell  you,  Melinda,  no- 
body knows  what  that  poor  woman's  had  to  put  up 
with.  She's  quiet  and  ain't  got  much  to  say  for 
herself,  and  folks  ain't  really  never  stopped  to  think 
of  all  she's  bore.  It's  pretty  hard  sometimes  to  just 
be  a  poor,  weak  woman  and  to  have  to  depend  on  a 
critter  like  Hurd." 

"But  surely,"  interposed  Anne,  "she  has  never 
attempted  to  depend  on  Mr.  Hurd,  a  strong,  capable 
woman  like  herself." 

"He's  her  husband,  ain't  he?"  said  Mrs.  Hill 
coldly,  "and  who  else  has  a  woman  got  to  depend 
on?  Mighty  queer  things  happen  around  here,  I 
can  tell  you  that."  She  had  at  last  arrived  at  the 
roast.  "But  I  guess  this  here  Streatham  business  is 
about  the  queerest  of  all." 

"Streatham !"  Mrs.  Nesbit  and  Anne  both  echoed 
her  words  simultaneously,  and  Sally  paused  in  the 


ANTHONY'S    STRANGE   LETTER     295 

path  below  at  the  sound  of  their  voices.  Then,  all 
aflame  as  she  was,  she  walked  up  the  steps  and  stood 
directly  before  Mrs.  Hill,  her  head  thrown  back,  and 
her  blue  glance  shining  burningly  through  her  half- 
closed  lids. 

"What  about  Mr.  Streatham,  Mrs.  Hill?  What 
interesting  bit  of  gossip  do  you  know  now  about 
him?" 

"Good  morning,  Mrs.  Salt."  Mrs.  Hill  was  ever 
mindful  of  her  manners.  "It's  a  pleasant  morning, 
isn't  it?t  Oh,  about  Mr.  Streatham.  I  was  as  sur- 
prised as  ever  was  when  I  heard  yesterday  that  he 
hadn't  ever  gone  away  after  all." 

"What !"  Sally  was  off  guard  now,  bending  for- 
ward, lips,  eyes,  whole  eager  face  questioning,  never 
attempting  to  conceal  her  passionate  interest. 

"Just  that.     He  ain't  ever  gone  away." 

"But  he  has,"  asseverated  Sally  Salt.  "What  do 
you  mean  by  saying  such  a  thing?" 

Mrs.  Hill  drew  her  cape  about  her  with  dignity. 
"I'm  saying  nothing  but  what  I  know,"  she  replied 
with  an  icy  positiveness.  "One  of  the  boys  has 
been  nutting,  and  he  says  he's  seen  Streatham  more 
than  once  in  John  Witherspoon's  woods;  that  he's 


296  SALLY    SALT 

living  there  in  that  little  cabin  on  the  river,  and  that 
he's  been  there  right  along.  Why,  I  supposed  you 
knew  it  all  the  time,  Mrs.  Salt." 

"It's  a  lie,"  said  Sally  obstinately,  and  walked 
blindly  into  the  house. 

In  the  seclusion  of  her  own  room,  the  door  se- 
curely locked  against  all  possible  intruders,  she  sank 
down  into  a  chair,  trembling,  sobbing.  What  did 
this  mean?  This  new  development  of  a  tortur- 
ing situation.  Oh,  it  was  true.  She  didn't  doubt 
it.  It  was  exactly  like  Anthony.  She  drew  the 
letter  from  her  bosom,  her  half-unread  letter,  and 
tore  it  to  tatters,  drawing  deep,  sobbing  breaths  the 
while,  and  blindly  scattered  the  pieces  all  over  the 
room. 

"Liar!"  she  cried  with  explosive  anguish.  "Oh, 
Anthony,  you  liar!" 


CHAPTER    XX 

LUCY   TAKES    COURAGE 

THE  days  of  the  long  and  lovely  autumn  were 
shortening,  darkening,  and  ever  more  obvi- 
ously assuming  the  dull  and  sober  livery  of  winter. 
Indian  Summer,  her  heart  of  fire  bedreamed  in 
opaline  hazes,  had  been  succeeded  by  the  gusts  and 
snow-flakes  of  Squaw  Winter,  and  Lucy  Parrish 
still  lingered  with  Sally.  Anne  had  made  a  reluc- 
tant departure,  but  Lucy  resolutely  refused  to  ac- 
company her,  and,  to  do  Lucy  justice,  it  was  not 
alone  the  glamour  of  her  play  romance  which  held 
her,  although  Sally  had  accused  her  of  it  more  than 
once. 

"You,  Lucy,"  she  said  to  her  on  one  occasion, 
"may  in  the  course  of  time  exhibit  all  the  signs  of 
old  age,  but  you  will  never  really  grow  up.  You 
will  always  stay  in  the  make-believe  age,  a  pretty 

297 


298  SALLY    SALT 

little  girl  in  a  white  embroidered  frock  and  a  blue 
sash." 

"Sally,"  replied  Lucy  with  some  heat,  "do  you 
know  that  you  always  say  anything  you  please  to 
me,  and  probably  always  will?  Yes,  you  do;  and 
if  you  want  to  explore  the  most  secret  corners  of  my 
soul,  you  just  throw  open  the  door  without  even 
knocking  and  walk  in,  look  around,  and  make  any 
comments  you  like  on  the  furniture  and  decorations. 
Yes,  you  do.  Do  not  attempt  to  deny  it.  And  I 
permit  it,  and  never  think  of  retaliating.  I  do  not 
dare,  any  more  than  the  rest  of  the  world,  to  ques- 
tion you  about  your  private  affairs.  But,  Sally," 
slipping  an  arm  through  Sally's  and  rubbing  her 
cheek  up  and  down  the  shoulder  of  her  taller  friend, 
"Sally,  I'm  going  to  take  my  courage  in  my  hands, 
no  matter  what  the  consequence  may  be."  Lucy's 
voice  was  small  and  cajoling,  and  hardly  indicative 
of  the  robust  and  heroic  qualities  she  was  claiming. 
"I  know  you  think  me  a  feather-head,  but  I've  got 
some  sense  in  certain  directions,  and  Sally,  I  want 
to  know  one  or  two  things." 

"You  do?"     Sally  smiled  indulgently  down  upon 


LUCY   TAKES    COURAGE  299 

her.  "Must  be  something  awfully  important. 
What  is  it?" 

"First,"  Lucy  took  the  courage  she  claimed  for 
herself  in  both  hands,  "I  want  to  know  why  that 
awful  Mrs.  Kurd  is  always  snooping  about  here? 
Oh,  Sally,  it's  no  use  your  turning  your  head  away 
and  shaking  me  off  like  that ;  and  you  needn't  walk 
away  either,  because  I'll  follow  you,  and  ask  you  un- 
til you  tell  me.  What  is  it?  What  does  she  want?" 

But  Sally  was  not  thrusting  the  question  aside  in 
the  cavalier  manner  Lucy  had  feared.  After  the 
first  involuntary  start  of  surprise,  she  had  gazed 
rather  frowningly  before  her,  apparently  weighing 
a  matter  which  had  occupied  much  of  her  thought. 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  asked  me  that,  Lucy,"  she  said 
at  last,  "and  yet  I  do  not  know  what  to  do.  I  am 
troubled  more  than  I  can  tell  you.  As  for  Mrs. 
Hurd,  I  should  put  a  stop  at  once  to  her  coming 
here.  She  is  getting  too  outrageous,  and  yet,  how 
can  I?" 

Lucy  threw  a  sympathetic  arm  about  her.  "What 
is  it,  Sally  dear?  Tell  me  all  about  it."  And  Sally, 
who  had  been  finding  almost  unbearable  the  strain 


300  SALLY   SALT 

of  doubt  and  pain  and  Mrs.  Kurd's  increasing  and 
arbitrary  demands  for  money,  always  more  money, 
felt  it  a  relief  to  pour  into  Lucy's  ears  the  whole 
wretched  story. 

"But,  Sally,"  cried  her  confidant,  interrupting  her 
in  her  last  broken  phrases,  "why  should  you  try  to 
keep  Mrs.  Hurd  quiet?  Surely  you  could  never 
believe  such  a  thing  of  Mr.  Streatham.  It  is  all  a 
horrible,  wicked  lie,  of  course." 

"Lucy,"  Sally  exclaimed,  turning  on  her  suddenly 
and  looking  at  her  fixedly,  "do  you  mean  to  say  you 
don't  believe  it?" 

"Indeed  I  do  not,"  Lucy  indignantly  averred. 
"Nothing  could  ever  make  me  believe  it.  Oh, 
Sally,  how  could  you — how  could  you?  You  love 
him,  and  I  do  not,  and  yet  you  could  believe  this  of 
him,  and  I  never,  never  could." 

"You  don't  know  all  the  circumstances."  Sally's 
voice  was  muffled,  broken.  It  was  foreign  to  her  to 
plead  or  explain. 

"No,  I  do  not  know  all  the  circumstances,  and  I 
do  not  want  to.  They  would  make  no  difference  to 
me,  who  am  only  his  friend."  Lucy  was  merciless, 
all  fiery  indignation. 


LUCY   TAKES   COURAGE  301 

"But  Lucy,  you  know  how  odd  he  is,  how  differ- 
ent from  any  one  else." 

"I  know  he  is  odd."  Lucy's  tone  indicated  that 
this  was  the  limit  of  her  concession. 

"You  know  his  queer,  capricious  humor.  Don't 
you  see  that  it  is  just  the  sort  of  an  adventure  that 
a  man  like  himself  might  indulge  in?  Suppose  he 
had  told  you,  Lucy,  the  whole  story  as  he  told  it  to 
me,  two  or  three  days  before  Mrs.  Kurd  brought 
the  newspaper.  Suppose  he  had  told  it  to  you  as  if 
he  had  lived  it,  really  taken  part  in  it,  and  as  if  he 
were  rather  angry  and  disgusted  with  the  remem- 
brance of  it,  and  yet  amused  by  it?  Oh,  Lucy, 
don't  you  see — ?" 

"No,  I  do  not  see,  for  one  moment."  Lucy's 
soft,  dimpled  mouth  was  set  in  obstinate  lines.  "The 
whole  thing,  Sally,  is  that  you  are  such  a  boss.  You 
are  so  used  to  managing  your  own  affairs  and  every 
one  else's,  carrying  everything  before  you  in  a  high- 
handed way,  deciding  things  in  a  minute,  and  then 
going  ahead  on  the  assumption  that  you  couldn't 
possibly  make  a  mistake  or  be  wrong;  and  you've 
followed  your  usual  methods  in  this  matter."  Lucy 
had  let  herself  go  in  the  ardor  of  her  championship. 


302  SALLY    SALT 

"In  talking  to  Anthony  Streatham,  you  probably 
took  it  for  granted  that  he  was  guilty.  Oh,  yes, 
you  did.  I  can  see  it  from  what  you  have  told  me, 
and  you  tried  to  boss  him,  of  course.  That  was  a 
very  dangerous  game  to  try  with  him,  Sally,  because 
you  can't  do  it.  For  all  his  queer  ways,  he's  got 
more  brains  and  better  judgment  than  you  have, 
and  he's  got  a  better  heart  than  you  have,  for  he's 
kind  and  tolerant,  and  you've  behaved  like  a  perfect 
b-brute."  She  paused  at  last,  principally  from  lack 
of  breath,  and  Sally  turned  such  stricken  eyes  upon 
her,  such  a  drawn  and  appalled  face,  that  indigna- 
tion gave  place  to  compunction,  and  compunction  to 
remorseful  sympathy  in  Lucy's  heart  in  less  than 
the  twinkling  of  an  eye. 

"Oh,  it  is  I — I  who  am  the  brute,"  she  wept. 
"Oh,  my  poor  Sally!"  She  cast  a  protecting  arm 
about  her  pale  and  silent  companion.  "How  could 
I — how  could  I  hurt  you  so  ?  My  poor  Sally !  Oh, 
I  wouldn't  have  thought  it  of  him." 

"Him !"  Sally  threw  off  Lucy's  arm  and  twitched 
impatiently.  "What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Why,  I  shouldn't  ever  have  dreamed  that  he 
would  do  such  a  thing." 


LUCY   TAKES    COURAGE  303 

"Then  all  I  have  to  say  is  that  you  are  very  easily 
convinced."  Sally  lifted  her  head  now,  the  old 
sapphire  lightning  in  her  eyes,  the  rich  color  rising 
in  her  cheeks.  "You  began  by  probing  into  my  af- 
fairs, by  asserting  your  undying  loyalty  to  Anthony 
Streatham.  Then  I  endeavored  to  explain  a  little 
the  reason  for  my  feelings,  and  you  blamed  me 
furiously;  and  then  in  the  next  breath  you  whirl 
about  and  begin  to  accuse  Anthony.  It  takes  very 
little  evidence  to  convince  you." 

Lucy  sat  gazing  at  her  with  staring,  incredulous 
eyes  and  unbelieving  ears. 

And  Sally  lifted  her  passionate  gaze  to  the  sky. 
"Isn't  there  any  loyalty  in  the  world?"  she  cried. 
"Poor  Tony,  even  those  who  call  themselves  your 
best  friends  one  moment  are  ready  to  turn  against 
you  the  next !" 

Lucy's  heart  was  broken.  Sobbing  bitterly,  but 
without  a  word,  she  left  the  house  and  ran  down  the 
paths  of  the  waste  and  desolate  garden  to  the  or- 
chard. There  she  sat  on  the  log  of  an  apple  tree, 
which  had  fallen  a  night  or  two  before  in  a  storm, 
and  wept  luxuriously,  until  the  click  of  the  gate  and 
the  appearance  of  Witherspoon  constrained  her  care- 


304  SALLY    SALT 

fully  and  finally  to  wipe  her  eyes  and  fumble  hastily 
in  the  little  gold  box  dangling  from  her  waist  for  a 
mirror  and  powder-puff. 

But  nevertheless  his  love-quickened  eyes  took  im- 
mediate note  of  the  traces  of  her  recent  volcanic 
emotion.  "Lucy,  Lucy!"  He  caught  her  hands  in 
his  and  bent  solicitously  above  her.  "What  is  it? 
What  has  happened?" 

At  the  sympathy  in  his  voice  the  tears  were  ready 
to  start  again,  but  Lucy,  mindful  of  reddened  eye- 
lids, made  a  brave  effort  to  repress  them.  "I'm 
going  home."  In  spite  of  herself  her  voice  trem- 
bled. "I'm  going  home.  Sally  has  been  saying  all 
sorts  of  things  to  me,  and  I'm  going  back  to  town 
to-day,  even  if  I  have  to  spend  the  winter  with 
Anne.  That  will  show  you  how  dreadful  it  has 
been." 

"Lucy  dear,"  he  shook  her  gently  by  the  shoul- 
ders, "what  is  all  this?  Try  and  tell  me  just  as 
clearly  as  you  can,  and  do  not  get  agitated." 

And  Lucy,  eager  to  be  comforted,  nestled  closer  to 
him  and  began:  "I've  been  suspecting  for  some 
time  that  that  horrid  old  black  raven  of  a  Mrs.  Kurd 
was  coming  here  for  no  good,  so  to-day  I  sum- 


LUCY   TAKES   COURAGE  305 

moned  up  courage  to  ask  Sally  what  it  all  meant, 
and  she  told  me  that  weeks  ago,  before  Anthony 
left,  Mrs.  Kurd  had  shown  her  a  newspaper  contain- 
ing a  description  and  photograph  of  the  man  Gris- 
som,  and  the  description  of  his  accomplice  served 
very  well  for  Anthony,  and  Mrs.  Kurd  threatened 
to  point  out  this  resemblance  to  the  sheriff  unless 
Sally  paid  her  a  large  sum  of  money,  and  Sally  did 
so,  and  now  she's  been  coming  about  here  every  few 
days  trying  to  extort  more." 

"Great  Heavens!"  said  Witherspoon.  "Great 
Heavens,  Lucy,  is  this  really  true?" 

Lucy  nodded.  "And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  Sally 
believes  him  guilty,  and  told  him  so,  and  that  is  why 
he  went  away." 

"Indeed!"  Witherspoon  spoke  curtly.  "That 
explains  many  things.  Indeed !" 

"And  when  I  defended  him  it  made  her  angry, 
and  when  I  agreed  with  her  that  things  did  look 
yjry  much  against  him  it  made  her  angrier  still," 
complained  Lucy. 

But  for  once  in  his  life  Witherspoon  scarcely 
heard  her.  He  was  pondering  deeply.  "I  think,  in 
this  case,"  he  said  at  last,  "that  I  shall  act  on  my 


306  SALLY    SALT 

own  initiative.  Yes,  I  think  I  shall  go  to  Sally  at 
once.  It  will  be  all  right,  Lucy.  Do  not  worry. 
There  are  some  things  I  can  set  straight,  I  am  sure. 
You  will  not  mind  my  leaving  you,  for  I  must  see 
her  immediately." 

"No;  go,  go!"  Lucy  gave  him  a  little  push. 
"If  it  is  in  your  power  to  make  any  of  these  crooked 
things  a  little  straighter,  for  goodness'  sake  make 
haste  to  do  it." 

Witherspoon  found  Sally  in  her  sitting-room,  be- 
fore her  desk,  but  neither  writing  nor  looking  over 
her  papers.  Instead,  she  sat  with  her  elbows 
propped  on  the  open  leaf,  her  chin  sunk  in  her 
hands,  staring  absently  and  unseeingly  at  the  rows 
of  pigeonholes  before  her.  She  looked  up  quickly 
as  Witherspoon  entered,  and  then  dropped  her  eyes 
and  shielded  the  side  of  her  face  nearest  the  light 
with  her  hand,  as  if  to  conceal  from  him  all  traces 
of  her  recent  emotion. 

"Oh,  good  morning,"  she  said.  "Won't  you  sit 
down  ?" 

"Mrs.  Salt,"  said  Witherspoon,  standing  beside 
the  desk  and  speaking  without  preamble,  "I  have 


LUCY   TAKES    COURAGE  307 

just  left  Lucy,  and  she  has  told  me  of  your  recent 
conversation — " 

"Naturally,"  Sally  interrupted  him,  laughing,  al- 
though her  laughter  sounded  a  little  forced.  "I 
was  starting  after  her  to  comfort  her  and  receive 
her  forgiveness  a  few  moments  ago,  when  Aunt 
Mandy  mentioned  that  she  had  seen  you  riding  by. 
Then  I  knew  that  Lucy  had  all  the  comfort  she 
needed." 

Witherspoon  waited  until  she  had  finished.  "Lucy 
has  also  told  me  of  Mrs.  Hurd's  attempts  to  extort 
money  from  you."  He  spoke  as  if  he  were  merely 
finishing  his  original  sentence,  and  had  not  noticed 
Sally's  interruption.  "In  view  of  this  fact,  I  am 
going  to  act  on  my  own  initiative  and  without  wait- 
ing to  consult  my  friend  Streatham." 

Sally's  eyes  were  fastened  upon  him,  holding  him 
with  their  intense  question,  but  she  did  not  speak. 

"You  have  been  paying  out  this  money  to  Mrs. 
Hurd  quite  unnecessarily."  Witherspoon's  voice 
was  cool,  unimpassioned,  as  if  merely  stating  a 
business  fact,  and  yet  to  Sally's  ears  it  seemed  in- 
fused with  a  certain  sternness. 


308  SALLY    SALT 

"What — what  do  you  mean?"  She  half  rose, 
her  hands  gripping  the  sides  of  the  desk. 

"You  have  been  blaming  Streatham  unjustly." 
He  was  implacable. 

She  shivered  as  if  she  had  been  struck.  "Oh,"  it 
was  a  deep-breathed  interrogation,  "do  you  mean 
it  ?  Is  it  true  ?  And  Anthony  was  not — " 

"Perfectly  true."  His  words  were  crisp  as  a 
flail.  "It  happens  to  be  a  brother  of  Streatham's 
who  is  implicated  in  this  matter — a  younger  brother, 
a  wild  scamp  of  a  fellow,  mad  as  a  March  hare. 
Old  Anthony  is  as  tame  as  a  cart  horse  in  compari- 
son. Just  before  he  came  here  for  the  harvest 
Anthony  had  succeeded  in  getting  this  boy  out  of 
the  country.  The  fellow  is  not  utterly  bad,  just 
wild  and  erratic.  At  least  that  is  Tony's  idea  of 
him,"  he  added  with  a  rather  grim  smile.  "I  admit 
that  it  may  be  colored  by  affectionate  prejudice." 

Sally's  pride  was  bowed  in  the  dust;  she  covered 
her  face  with  her  hands.  "Oh,  Tony,  Tony!  To 
think  that  I  have  doubted  you !"  It  was  the  cry  of 
her  soul.  "Lucy  was  right.  It's  my  horrible  way 
of  jumping  at  conclusions,  of  always  being  dead 
sure  I'm  right.  And  I  failed  him  when  I  should 


LUCY   TAKES   COURAGE  309 

have  trusted  and  believed.  And  then — "  she  went 
on,  eager  to  confess,  to  show  to  the  full  her  self- 
abasement,  "when  Mrs.  Hill  told  me  a  few  days 
ago  that  he  had  been  right  here  all  the  time,  in  your 
little  cabin  on  the  river  road,  I  was  furious,  because 
I  had  just  half  read  his  letter  you  had  given  me;  and 
instead  of  seeing  it  as  a  characteristic  bit  of  his 
queer  humor — a  little  fantastic  it  is  sometimes,  you 
know,  John — why,  I  simply  raged.  I  felt  that  it 
insulted  my  intelligence.  And  since  then  I've  been 
trying  to  forgi/e  him.  Think  of  it!  I  fell  so  low 
as  that — putting  myself  on  a  pedestal  and  trying  to 
realize  that  he  was  a  poor,  moralless  creature,  and 
that  it  was  my  duty  to  forgive  him.  It's — it's  wor- 
thy of  Mrs.  Hill  or  Anne.  I've  always  known  that 
only  vile-minded  people  had  moral  standards.  He 
hasn't  any,  thank  God.  He's  far,  far  above  them. 
He's  just  kind  and  loving  and  tolerant.  He  would 
never  put  on  any  one  the  indignity  of  forgiving 
them.  He'd  never  think  that  any  one  could  or 
would  wrong  him,  or  that  anybody  needed  to  be  for- 
given." 

Sally's  red  head,  carried  so  proudly  in  storm  and 
sunshine,  was  bowed  now.     She  had  bent  it  upon 


310  SALLY    SALT 

her  arms  outflung  upon  the  desk;  but  again  she 
lifted  her  streaming  blue  eyes  to  Witherspoon's. 

"Tell  me,"  she  besought  him,  "what  I  must  do. 
May  I  go  to  him,  there  in  his  little  cottage,  and  tell 
him  how  humbled,  how  ashamed  I  am?" 

Witherspoon  hesitated  a  moment.  "Would  it 
not  be  best  for  me  to  carry  a  note  from  you  ?  You 
do  not  want  others  to  know  of  this  matter,  which 
lies  only  between  you  two." 

"Others?  What  do  you  mean?"  she  exclaimed 
in  a  puzzled  voice. 

"The  Kurds,"  he  replied,  after  his  laconic  fashion. 

"The  Kurds!"  She  was  calm,  ominously  calm, 
in  a  moment,  her  voice  ringing  with  a  deep  note  of 
inquiry. 

"Yes,  Hilda  and  her  father.  They  had  some 
difficulty  at  home,  and  were  wandering  about  with- 
out any  very  definite  idea  of  what  they  were  going 
to  do,  when  Tony  ran  across  them  and  took  them 
in." 

There  was  silence  for  a  moment  or  two.  "How 
long  have  they  been  there?"  Her  voice  was  low 
and  controlled. 

"Two  or  three  weeks,  I  believe." 


LUCY   TAKES    COURAGE  311 

Again  there  was  silence.  Sally  was  recalling  the 
first  evening  when  Streatham  had  told  her  that  he 
loved  her,  when,  the  world  forgetting,  they  two  had 
stood  gazing  into  each  other's  eyes,  and  then  across 
the  meadows  had  come  that  far  call  of  melody, 
Hilda  singing,  and  Anthony  had  forgotten  her, 
Sally,  forgotten  everything  to  listen. 

"Shall  I  take  him  a  note  or  a  verbal  message  from 
you?"  asked  Witherspoon,  finally  breaking  the 
silence. 

Her  hair  had  been  drawn  back  meekly  plain,  but 
now  it  seemed  to  crinkle  and  wave  out  from  her 
brow  in  red,  rebellious  tendrils;  her  eyes  were  like 
blue  steel  played  upon  by  a  lambent  flame;  Wither- 
spoon blinked  under  their  momentary  glance. 

"Neither!"  she  cried,  and,  slamming  up  the  leaf 
of  her  desk,  without  excuse  or  apology  flashed  out 
of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

DAUGHTER   OF   DREAMS 

IT  was  the  twilight  hour,  the  early  dusk  of  a 
•winter  afternoon.  Without,  desolate,  dim  and 
cold  enough,  but  within  Streatham's  cabin,  warm 
and  cozy,  the  fire  of  logs  illuminated  the  shadows 
which  gathered  more  densely  in  the  corners  of  the 
room.  An  hour  for  reflection,  meditation,  dreams. 
Hilda  had  curled  up  in  a  chair  before  the  hearth, 
gazing  at  the  leaping,  intermittent  flames,  and 
Streatham  had,  as  it  grew  too  dim  to  write,  left  his 
manuscript  on  a  table  before  the  window  and  seated 
himself  at  the  piano,  where  he  sat  playing  in  a  sort 
of  reverie,  drifting  inconsequently  from  one  thing 
to  another. 

Presently  he  asked,  without  turning  about: 
"Hilda,  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?" 

"I'm  seeing  pictures,"  she  answered.  "I  always 
see  such  beautiful  pictures  when  you  play.  Just 

312 


DAUGHTER    OF    DREAMS  313 

now  there  were  lovely  ones.  At  first  everything 
was  dark,  and  then  I  saw  a  beautiful  color  like  vio- 
lets in  the  dusk,  and  then  moonlight,  pale,  golden 
moonlight  on  the  water,  and  then  you  changed ;  you 
didn't  play  the  music  the  river  sings  any  more,  nor 
the  music  the  wind  sighs  in  the  trees,  but  something 
gayer.  Then  I  could  see  the  fairies,  little  blue  and 
white  and  pink  and  green  fairies  dancing." 

"Ah,  Hilda,  what  a  daughter  of  dreams  you  are !" 
He  left  the  piano  and,  taking  a  chair  opposite  her, 
rested  his  arm  upon  the  table  and  leaned  his  cheek 
upon  his  hand.  The  gleam  of  th'e  firelight,  instead 
of  softening  the  lines  of  his  face,  seemed  to  throw 
into  relief  and  to  accentuate  its  haggard  wanness. 
All  the  illusion  of  soft  shadow  and  ruddy  glow  could 
not  conceal  the  fact  that  his  cheeks  and  temples  had 
hollowed  almost  startlingly,  that  his  eyes  were  very 
weary,  and,  in  spite  of  the  interest  he  was  manifest- 
ing now,  there  was  a  tired  ring  in  his  voice. 

"Tell  me,"  he  continued,  his  gaze  upon  her,  "what 
you  would  rather  do  than  anything  else  in  the 
world." 

"What  do  I  want  more  than  anything  in  the 
world?"  she  pondered.  "Oh,  more  than  anything 


314  SALLY    SALT 

else,  I  want  to  sing.  There  isn't  anything  else,"  she 
said  simply. 

"Ah,  the  artist's  desire  for  recognition!"  he 
mused.  "You  want  to  sing  to  great  audiences,  to 
know  that  you  'are  delighting  thousands,  to  hear  the 
thunders  of  applause.  Is  that  what  intoxicates  your 
imagination?" 

She  twisted  her  fingers  together  and  looked  a  little 
unhappy.  He  who  always  understood  had  in  some 
way  failed.  "Not  just  that,"  she  murmured. 
"Ah,"  she  sighed  impatiently  again,  "it's  so  hard 
to  say  things,  to  explain.  I  never  could  talk  very 
easily,  but,  Mr.  Streatham,  I  can't  help  singing. 
I'm  only  alive  when  I'm  singing.  It's  this  way: 
When  I'm  not  singing  I'm  just  dull  Hilda,  very  shy, 
and  afraid  of  everybody,  and  there's  a  kind  of  a 
sadness  and  a  jar.  Oh,  it's  like  discord,  but  when 
I'm  singing,  that  all  melts  away,  that  sadness,  and 
there's  a  wonderful  sense  of  warmth  and  color.  I'm 
happy,  there's  nothing  in  all  the  world  that  I  fear, 
and  a  sense  of  power  comes  to  me,  as  if  it  were 
flowing  through  me.  It's — it's  as  if  I  were  saying: 
'Now  I  shall  reach  something.'  I  don't  just  throw 
my  voice  into  the  empty  air;  I  send  it  to  some  one 


DAUGHTER    OF    DREAMS  315 

that  I  know  is  waiting  and  listening  for  it.  Maybe 
some  one  that  I  shall  never  see,  but  some  one  thou- 
sands of  miles  away  who  is  waiting  for  it.  I  say : 
'Go,  little  song,  and  make  some  one  who  is  sad 
happy  and  glad.'  That  is  when  I  feel  bright  and 
merry.  And  sometimes  I  know — I  just  know,  Mr. 
Streatham — that  the  power  in  my  voice,  the  little 
wings  that  lift  it  higher  and  higher,  goes  to  some 
suffering  person,  a  sick  child,  perhaps,  and  makes 
them  well  again," 

Anthony  looked  at  her  long  and  unobserved,  for 
she  had  spoken  with  her  gaze  upon  the  flames,  and 
still  held  it  there. 

"Oh,  daughter  of  dreams,"  he  muttered  at  last,  so 
low  that  she  could  not  catch  his  words,  "why  were 
you  ever  sent  to  tread  the  Via  Crucis,  I  wonder  ? 

"Hilda,"  he  said  a  few  moments  later,  "you  must 
not  think  me  impertinent  if  I  talk  to  you  about  your- 
self. I  do  not  mean  it  so.  It  is  only  that  I  want  to 
help  you,  and  I  don't  want  to  meddle.  God  forbid !" 
He  twitched  his  eyebrows  and  shoulders  irritably. 

"Impertinent?"  she  said  wonderingly.  "That's 
funny.  I  don't  believe  you  could  be,  Mr.  Streat- 
ham." 


316  SALLY    SALT 

Streatham  had  been  filling  his  pipe  in  a  lesiurely 
fashion,  and  now  he  leaned  forward  and  lighted  it 
with  a  splinter  of  wood  which  he  thrust  into  the 
flame.  "It  is  very  evident,  Hilda,"  he  remarked, 
"that  the  earth  is  not  your  mother,  and  that  you 
have  no  very  ardent  yearnings  for  the  'life  of  fruit 
and  corn.'  The  stars  and  the  mountain  peaks  for 
you ;  isn't  it  so  ?  You  have  a  fine,  aspiring  taste  for 
the  inaccessible." 

He  smoked  and  meditated  for  a  season.  "Hilda," 
he  said  finally  and  with  decision,  "it's  got  to  be  done 
some  way  or  another." 

"What?"  she  asked. 

"This :  You  shall  go  to  the  city  of  romance  with 
your  father — several  cities  of  romance,  and  you 
shall  have  your  voice  cultivated.  My  knowledge  of 
life  prevents  me  from  rushing  headlong  into  rash 
prediction.  I  have  met  the  unexpected  just  turning 
the  corner  on  too  many  different  occasions;  but, 
nevertheless,  I  think  it  would  take  a  string  of  adjec- 
tives a  yard  long  to  describe  your  future.  It  will,  I 
am  convinced,  be  a  most  adjectivey,  future — nice, 
glittery,  spangly  adjectives.  And  you  won't  care  a 
rap  about  them. 


DAUGHTER   OF    DREAMS  317 

"Think  of  it !  when  there  are  so  many  who  would 
be  drunk  with  delight  at  the  thought  of  getting  even 
a  tiny  slice  of  such  a  future  as  yours.  But  there 
you'll  stand,  right  in  the  middle  of  your  future, 
Hilda,  with  the  treasure  of  earth  heaped  about  your 
feet,  and  you'll  be  encrusted  with  cobwebby  laces 
and  hung  with  jewels.  And  there  you'll  stand, 
quite  unconscious  of  them,  with  your  wistful, 
dreaming  eyes  fixed  on  the  cold,  cold  stars,  and  the 
snow-covered  mountain  peaks,  so  difficult  and  dis- 
tant. And  every  one  will  want  to  shake  you  ex- 
cept myself. 

"But  not  I."  As  he  sat  gazing  at  her  the  under- 
standing sympathy  in  his  eyes  deepened  and  changed 
until  at  last  it  became  a  yearning  spiritual  hunger. 
The  fascination  which  her  strange,  mystical  nature 
had  always  exercised  for  him  had  never  been  more 
potent.  All  the  dreamer,  the  adventurer  who  longed 
to  explore  untrodden  paths  and  fare  forth  on  an  un- 
known quest  rose  from  some  submerged  depths  of 
his  nature  and  claimed  him.  He  heard  again  that 
far,  clear  call  of  melody  across  the  sunset  fields  and 
the  soul  of  him  rose  up  to  answer  her.  For  a  mo- 
ment or  through  uncounted  eons  he  seemed  to  be 


318  SALLY    SALT 

following  her  through  worlds  beyond  worlds  of 
light  and  beauty. 

And  then  a  great  log  fell  apart,  scattering  the  em- 
bers and  sending  up  a  shower  of  sparks,  and  he  was 
back  again  in  the  familiar  world  of  every  day.  She 
was  merely  quaint,  childlike  Hilda  sitting  opposite 
to  him  on  the  hearth,  and  more  than  ever  was  he 
conscious  of  the  unassuaged  longing  of  his  tired 
heart  for  his  beloved,  human  Sally. 

"No,"  he  said  taking  up  the  conversation  again, 
"I  will  understand  in  a  way  and  sympathize,  but  not 
the  rest.  Believe  me,  they  will  want  to  shake  you." 

"Will  they?"  she  laughed. 

"Of  course  they  will.  Are  they  not  all  sensible 
men — and  women,  especially  women?  I  wonder, 
Hilda,  why  every  one  prides  himself  more  on  pos- 
sessing common  sense  than  on  genius,  or  a  great  and 
tender  heart,  or  any  of  man's  more  pleasing  attri- 
butes. Common  sense.  Faugh !  It's  the  deadliest 
of  the  seven  deadly  virtues. 

"Tell  me,  Hilda,"  he  said  suddenly,  "did  you — 
did  you  ever  really  care  for  Grissom?" 

Her  delicate  face  flushed  crimson.  "I — I — 
thought  so  once,"  she  answered  in  a  low  voice,  "but 


DAUGHTER   OF    DREAMS  319 

when  I  learned  about — about  the  way  he  lived,  I 
couldn't  care  about  him  any  more.  I  felt  sorry  for 
him,  but  I  couldn't  love  him." 

Anthony  nodded  without  speaking,  but  presently 
he  began  again : 

"Ah,  Hilda,  you  are  a  wonderful  listener.  Silence 
and  a  sympathetic  understanding,  what  more  could 
one  ask  of  a  listener?  And  in  this  firelit,  twilight 
hour,  I  could  give  you  the  freedom  of  the  city  of  my 
mind  and  heart.  And  that  is  almost  an  impossibility 
with  me,  child.  Any  sign  of  the  interest  that  verges 
on  curiosity,  and  there  is  very  little  interest  that  does 
not,  and  all  the  gates  clang  to  on  the  instant  and  are 
fast  locked  by  a  combination  which  even  I  do  not 
understand.  Hilda,  I  will  give  my  brother  my  cloak 
also;  if  it  amused  me  to  let  him  smite  one  cheek,  I 
should  probably  offer  him  the  other.  I  can  even 
fancy  myself  giving  my  body  to  be  burned,  but  my 
individuality  is  my  own.  Man  or  woman  infringes 
on  that  at  his  peril,  I  can  not  answer  a  personal  ques- 
tion ;  it  is  not  a  case  of  will  not,  but  can  not.  But, 
listen  to  me  now.  I  am  sitting  here  talking  like  a 
garrulous  old  woman.  What  is  that  ?"  He  roused 
himself  to  listen. 


320  SALLY    SALT 

There  was  the  sound  of  voices  and  footfalls  with- 
out. 

.  "It  is  father  and  Mr.  Witherspoon,"  said  Hilda, 
and  hastened  to  open  the  door.  There  was  a  trace 
of  excitement  in  Mr.  Hurd's  manner,  but  Wither- 
spoon looked  grave  and  a  bit  worried.  Streatham 
threw  a  fresh  log  on  the  fire.  "You'll  stay  for  sup- 
per, Witherspoon,"  he  said.  "You've  got  to." 

Witherspoon  looked  up  to  shake  his  head  dissent- 
ingly  and  then,  apparently  struck  by  something  in 
his  friend's  appearance,  continued  to  regard  him 
steadily  for  a  moment  or  so,  the  gravity  of  his  ex- 
pression deepening. 

"What's  the  matter,  Anthony?"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "You  look  anything  but  fit.  Are  your  visit- 
ors too  much  for  you  ?  I  rather  feared  they  would 
be.  We  must  make  some  other  arrangements  at 
once." 

"No,  oh  no."  Streatham  passed  his  hand  across 
his  brow.  "It  isn't  that.  Lord  knows  just  what  it 
is.  Winter  coming  on,  I  dare  say.  It's  nothing 
anyway.  I'm  all  right,  only  I  feel  tired,  deucedly 
tired." 

The  two  men  had  withdrawn  a  little  from  Hilda 


DAUGHTER   OF    DREAMS  321 

and  her  father  as  they  talked,  and  now  Witherspoon 
drummed  moodily  on  the  window-pane. 

"I  think  it's  a  great  deal  more  to  the  point  to  ask 
what's  the  matter  with  you,  Witherspoon?"  said 
Anthony  with  a  short  laugh,  but  eying  the  other 
man  keenly.  "You  certainly  are  wearing  a  rueful 
countenance.  What  is  the  matter?" 

"Lots  of  things."  Witherspoon's  tone  was  as 
moody  as  his  face.  "The  worst  of  them  is,  that  that 
scoundrel  of  a  Grissom  is  back  here  again." 

"Good  Lord !"  Anthony  started  back,  his  apathy 
gone.  "When?  Where?  How  do  you  know ?" 

"Saw  him,"  said  Witherspoon.  "Hurd  and  I  met 
him  up  near  my  house.  That's  the  magnet  that's 
drawn  him,  I  imagine,"  indicating  Hilda  with  a 
backward  jerk  of  the  head.  "I  told  him  just  what 
he  might  expect.  He's  a  yellow  dog,  of  course,  so 
I  think  he  will  be  off  without  delay.  I  hope  so,  be- 
cause if  Washburne  gets  an  inkling  of  his  being 
here,  why,  the  game's  up,  as  far  as  Grissom  is  con- 
'cerned." 

'  'A  fool  there  was,'  "  murmured  Streatham  cyn- 
ically. "Think  of  a  captain  of  industry,  or  shall  we 
say,  Chevalier  d' Indus  trie,  like  Grissom  in  hopeless 


322  SALLY    SALT 

thrall  to  a  poor  little  homespun  daughter  of  dreams 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  stars  and  the  mountain 
peaks." 

"Tony !  Where  are  you  galloping  to  now,  on  that 
knock-kneed  old  Pegasus  of  yours?"  Witherspoon 
was  half  laughing,  half  impatient. 

"I'm  back  to  earth  again.  My  Pegasus  can't  stay 
up  long ;  he  gets  blind  staggers  in  the  air  and  tumbles 
down  very  soon.  But  truly,  John,  I  hope  you  im- 
pressed on  Grissom  the  imperative  and  immediate 
necessity  of  clearing  out." 

"I  tried  to,"  replied  Witherspoon,  "but  Mr.  Kurd 
and  himself  had  some  conversation  together.  It 
might  be  a  good  plan  to  find  out  just  what  it  per- 
tained to." 

"I  know  without  asking,"  Anthony  twisted  his 
mouth  humorously.  "It  dealt  with  the  unexplored 
countries  within  the  boundaries  of  the  fourth  di- 
mension, and  kindred  topics,  all  of  immense  interest 
to  Grissom." 

"No  doubt,"  laughed  Witherspoon.  "Good 
Heavens!  It's  as  dark  as  pitch;  I  must  be  off." 

"I'll  accompany  you  through  the  woods  to  keep 


DAUGHTER    OF    DREAMS  323 

the  bears  away,"  said  Streatham,  catching  up  his 
cap  and  coat. 

Hilda  had  evidently  been  repressing  some  emo- 
tion as  long  as  Streatham  and  Witherspoon  were 
in  the  room,  but  now  she  turned  and  caught  her 
father  by  the  coat 

"But  you  didn't  tell  him  that  I  was  here?" 

Her  father  laid  his  hand  upon  her  hair.  "There 
is  no  occasion  for  agitation,  Hilda,"  he  said  rather 
rebukingly.  "What  else  was  there  to  do?  He  asked 
about  you  and  asked  where  we  were,  if — if  not  at 
our  former  home,  and  I  explained  that  we  were 
stopping  here  a  few  days  before  continuing  our 
journey." 

Hilda  turned  from  him  and  buried  her  face  in 
her  hands.  "Oh,  what,  what  have  you  done?"  she 
murmured  helplessly. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

THE    HUNT   FOR   GRISSOM 

IT  was  the  next  afternoon  after  the  conversation 
with  Witherspoon  before  any  of  the  members  of 
her  household  saw  Sally  again.  Lucy,  especially, 
had  felt  some  anxiety  when  her  friend  failed  to 
make  her  usual  early  morning  appearance,  and  had 
sent  Wilmerdine  to  make  some  inquiries ;  but  in  re- 
sponse to  her  knock  Sally  had  informed  her  that  she 
was  to  carry  word  to  Mrs.  Parrish  that  Mrs.  Salt 
was  quite  well,  but  did  not  wish  to  be  disturbed  on 
any  account.  With  that  word,  Lucy  was  forced  to 
content  herself. 

At  the  mid-day  dinner,  however,  Sally  appeared, 
looking  much  as  usual.  Whatever  §torm  and  stress 
she  had  known,  her  superb  health  was  proof  against 
any  very  noticeable  ravages,  and  cold  water  is  a 
wonderful  factor  in  obliterating  any  traces  of  a 
sleepless  night. 

324 


THE   HUNT    FOR    GRISSOM         325 

After  dinner  they  sat  about  the  fire  which  burned 
cheerily  in  Sally's  sitting-room.  The  day  was 
bright  but  chilly,  and  Sally  felt  a  languid  disinclina- 
tion to  move  about.  Mrs.  Nesbit  sat  monotonously 
clicking  her  knitting  needles;  Lucy  read.  The 
warmth,  the  soothing  atmosphere,  all  induced  a 
drowsiness  in  Sally.  She  settled  her  red  head  com- 
fortably against  the  back  of  her  chair  and  closed 
her  eyes  only  to  open  them  again  with  a  start.  Lucy 
had  jumped  to  her  feet  and  run  to  the  window,  and 
Mrs.  Nesbit  had  ceased  to  knit  and  begun  to  tremble. 

"Dear  me!"  cried  Sally,  "what  a  clatter  of  hoofs! 
And  what  does  it  mean?  And  all  those  shouts!" 

"A  lot  of  men  and  boys  rushing  by,"  said  Lucy 
from  her  post  at  the  window.  "What  can  it  mean?" 

"I  hope  it  isn't  an  earthquake,"  said  Mrs.  Nesbit 
fervently. 

"Ah!"  exclaimed  Lucy,  "now  we  shall  know. 
Here  is  Mrs.  Hill  just  coming  through  the  gate." 

Mrs.  Hill  was,  indeed,  making  such  haste  as  her 
bulk  permitted.  Her  skirts  were  caught  up  firmly 
on  either  side,  her  bonnet  was  canted  in  close  prox- 
imity to  one  ear,  and  her  face  was  scarlet  from  her 
exertions,  for  had  she  not  abandoned  her  usual 


326  SALLY    SALT 

slow  and  stately  progress  in  the  endeavor  to  be  the 
first  to  bear  the  tidings  of  some  unusual  occurrence  ? 

For  the  first  time,  in  all  probability,  she  found 
herself  welcomed  by  Lucy  and  Sally.  Lucy,  in 
fact,  ran  and  opened  the  door  in  her  eagerness  to 
admit  her. 

"What  is  it,  Mrs.  Hill?"  she  cried.  "I  am  sure 
you  must  know." 

But  the  visitor  was,  for  the  moment,  past  speech. 
She  could  only  puff  and  pant  and  gasp,  but  after 
comfortably  ensconcing  herself  in  an  easy  chair, 
and  untying  her  bonnet  strings  and  casting  them 
over  her  shoulders  with  her  habitual  gesture,  she 
found  voice. 

"There's  something  awful  going  on,"  she  an- 
nounced to  her  waiting  auditors,  who  leaned  for- 
ward, their  eyes  fixed  on  her  face,  "and  I  just  can't 
find  out  what  I  don't  know  what  it  can  possibly 
be,  but  the  road's  full  of  men  and  boys  on  foot  and 
horseback,  and  Jake  Washburne's  just  careering 
around." 

"But  couldn't  you  hear  what  it  was?"  pouted 
Lucy.  "I  didn't  know  anything  ever  escaped  you, 
Mrs.  Hill." 


THE   HUNT   FOR   GRISSOM        327 

"Few  things  do,"  responded  that  lady  signifi- 
cantly, "but,"  and  her  mien  was  somewhat  crest- 
fallen, "I  couldn't  get  any  satisfaction  out  of  those 
crazy  men.  I  even  caught  one  or  two  of  them  as 
they  passed  me,  but  they  only  mumbled  something 
and  jerked  themselves  away." 

"I've  got  to  find  out  what  it  is,"  said  Sally,  roused 
to  interest.  "Wilmerdine,"  to  that  maiden,  who 
had  just  entered  to  put  another  log  on  the  fire,  "go 
and  tell  some  one  at  the  stables  to  saddle  Berta  for 
me."  The  light  had  returned  to  her  eyes,  the  color 
to  her  cheeks,  at  the  anticipation  of  action.  "Think 
of  it,  Mrs.  Hill!  I  shall  have  the  news  before  you 
will.  But  cheer  up.  It  will  be  the  first  time  on  rec- 
ord. " 

"Oh,  but  Sally,"  remonstrated  Lucy,  "you 
haven't  an  idea  what  it  is.  There  may  be  danger. 
Anyway,  you  know  how  nervous  Berta  is ;  and  she's 
so  fresh.  You  haven't  had  her  out  for  several 
days.  Do  let  us  wait  patiently.  What  is  the  use 
of  rushing  about?" 

"Bah!"  returned  Sally,  her  eyes  sparkling,  "sit 
here  in  the  house  when  there's  something  going  on, 
something  to  do,  perhaps? 


328  SALLY    SALT 

"  'A  short  life  in  the  saddle,  Lord, 
Not  a  long  life  by  the  fire.' 


Anything  is  better  than  that.     Well,  Wilmerdine  ?" 

"There  ain't  a  man  on  the  place,  Miss  Sally,  not 
even  a  stable-boy."  Wilmerdine's  eyes  were  rolling 
with  the  importance  of  her  message. 

"Humph!  It  is  time  I  was  stirring."  Sally 
lifted  her  eyebrows.  "I'll  just  saddle  Berta  my- 
self." 

It  was  the  work  of  a  few  moments  to  buckle  a 
saddle  on  Berta  and  then  swing  herself  into  it.  As 
she  turned  out  into  the  road  she  saw  that  it  was 
almost  deserted.  This  fact  in  itself  surprised  her. 
Her  first  idea  was  that  there  was  a  fire  on  one  of 
the  farms  about  her,  but,  scan  the  horizon  as  she 
would  in  every  direction,  she  saw  no  traces  of 
smoke.  As  she  drew  near  the  Hurd  cottage  she 
discerned  the  tall,  dark  figure  of  Mrs.  Hurd  stand- 
ing at  the  gate,  the  inevitable  Trip  beside  her.  Her 
hand  shielded  her  eyes  as  she  looked  up  and  down 
the  road.  Her  glance,  her  whole  figure  expressed 
a  sort  of  tense  and  dreadful  expectation. 

"What's  going  on?"  said  Sally  curtly,  reining  in 


THE   HUNT    FOR    GRISSOM         329 

Berta,  who  pranced  and  pirouetted  like  a  ballet 
dancer. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Salt!"  Mrs.  Kurd's  eyes  might  be 
avid,  almost  burning,  her  whole  figure  might  be 
tense,  but  her  voice  was  as  suavely  calm  as  ever. 
"I'm  afraid  there's  going  to  be  some  trouble,"  she 
said,  shaking  her  head. 

"You  mean  you're  afraid  there's  not  going  to 
be  some  trouble,"  commented  Sally  to  herself 
shrewdly. 

"You  see,"  continued  Mrs.  Hurd,  "Grissom's 
been  here  again,  and  Jake  Washburne's  out  for 
him.  Oh,  he  can't  get  away  this  time." 

"Here!"  cried  Sally  unbelievingly.  "Here? 
Why  on  earth  has  he  come  back  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs.  Hurd,  meekly  lick- 
ing her  lips  in  a  kind  of  awful  joy. 

"Which  way  did  they  go?"  asked  Sally  sharply. 
"Oh,  I  see,"  as  two  or  three  horsemen  turned  into 
the  road  ahead  of  her  at  full  gallop. 

Without  a  further  word  or  glance  at  Mrs.  Hurd, 
she  was  off  again  like  a  shot.  As  Lucy  had  timidly 
stated,  Berta  was  fresh,  and  Sally  turned  toward 
the  hills,  riding  like  the  wind  in  pursuit  of  the 


330  SALLY    SALT 

sheriff.  Occasionally  she  drew  up  a  moment  to  get 
what  information  she  could,  in  the  main  from 
women  standing  at  their  gates,  as  to  the  direction  he 
had  taken,  and  then,  with  a  word  to  Berta,  she  was 
away  again. 

And  Sally  rode  with  a  high  heart.  She  and 
Berta  were  one  in  the  delirious  joy  of  wild  and 
rapid  movement  in  that  mad  race  against  time.  As 
Berta  spurned  the  commonplace  earth  with  her 
dainty,  flying,  careless  hoofs,  striking  sparks  when 
she  deigned  to  touch  it,  Sally,  exultant,  felt  herself 
lifted  above  the  dust  of  the  world.  Did  she  not  see 
fields  and  woods  and  hamlets  flow  past  her?  The 
earth  ran  like  a  river,  and  she  and  Berta  cut  the 
wind  like  an  arrow.  Regret,  sorrow,  heartache 
were  all  forgotten.  Everything  was  forgotten.  She 
felt  as  a  bird,  knowing  only  the  rapture  of  flight. 
The  blue  sky  above  her,  the  yellow  road  before  her, 
and  she  poised  between  them,  free,  unlimited,  cleav- 
ing the  wind,  and  a  part  of  it — a  thing  of  the  air, 
bodyless,  unfettered. 

"Berta!  Berta!!"  she  cried.  "We  could  give 
them  a  day's  start  on  their  old  plow  horses  and  beat 


THE   HUNT    FOR   GRISSOM         331 

them  to  the  goal.  What  show  have  they  against 
your  little  quicksilver  hoofs,  you  thoroughbred?" 

And  now  they  had  reached  the  hills,  and  Berta 
began  to  slow  down  and  pick  her  way  with  a  saga- 
cious and  dainty  precision.  The  roads  were  rough, 
often  mere  wagon  trails,  and  full  of  ruts.  At  last, 
at  the  entrance  of  a  deep  gully,  the  mare  stopped 
and,  lifting  her  delicate  head,  appeared  to  listen. 
Sally,  too,  bent  her  ear  and  also  listened  intently. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  she  heard  a  shout  or  two  just 
beyond  the  hills  which  rose  steeply  from  one  side  of 
them.  And  then  her  attention  was  arrested  by  a 
much  nearer  sound.  She  turned  her  eyes  quickly 
in  the  direction  from  whence  it  came.  There  was  a 
rustling  in  the  bushes,  the  sound  of  broken  branches, 
and  Grissom  stumbled  out,  his  clothes  torn,  his  hat 
gone,  his  face  a  dull,  sickly  yellow  from  terror. 

"Mrs.  Salt !"  he  gasped,  staggering  down  the  road 
toward  her.  "Mrs.  Salt,  you're  a  kind  woman. 
Oh,  for  God's  sake,  save  me!  There's  a  mob  of, 
them.  You  know  what  a  mob  is.  They'll  lynch 
me,  sure!" 

Sally  was  on  the  ground  in  a  minuteT     "They 


332  SALLY   SALT 

will  if  they  can  get  you,  but  not  while  I'm  here," 
she  cried.  "Up  with  you.  Berta  will  carry  you 
like  a  bird.  Let  me  think  a  second,"  as  he  scram- 
bled into  the  saddle.  "Where  are  they?  Right 
over  there  ?"  She  pointed  toward  the  hill. 

"Yes,  a  mob  of  them.  My  God !"  He  was  shak- 
ing like  a  jelly. 

"Ride  through  this  gully,"  speaking  with  her 
usual  authoritative  decision,  "until  you  see  a  road 
leading  to  the  left.  Then  follow  it.  It  will  take 
you  to  the  village  of  Wheaton.  There  tell  the  sta- 
tion agent  that  you  have  been  working  on  Mrs. 
Salt's  farm  and  that  she  sent  you  to  catch  the  train. 
You  are  going  to  town  on  a  special  errand  for  her. 
Leave  the  mare  with  him  and  tell  him  that  I  will 
send  for  her  this  evening.  Berta  is  all  right,  but 
don't  pull  too  hard  on  her  mouth.  Now  be  off." 

Bending  low  in  the  saddle,  and  with  some  half- 
choked  thanks  murmured  through  his  chattering 
teeth,  he  was  gone.  Sally  watched  him  until  he 
was  out  of  sight,  and  then  again  listened  a  moment 
to  catch  the  direction  whence  came  the  shouting  and 
noise.  It  seemed  to  be  all  concentrated  in  one 
locality  instead  of  intermittent  and  scattering,  as  it 


THE   HUNT   FOR   GRISSOM        333 

had  been  previously.  She  hurried  up  the  ascent, 
and  as  she  reached  the  top  she  saw  that  the  long 
downward  slope  was  crowded  with  men  and  boys, 
standing  as  if  they  had  suddenly  been  arrested  in 
their  upward  rush  and  were  awed  and  overcome  by 
some  unexpected  occurrence.  In  the  center  of  this 
wide  human  circle,  and  where  the  hillside  fell  into 
a  little  cup,  Sally  saw  a  man  lying,  while  Wash- 
burne  and  one  or  two  of  his  deputies  bent  above 
him.  On  the  mad,  unthinking  onrush  of  passion  a 
halt  had  been  called.  A  hush  had  fallen.  The 
progress  of  the  mob,  irresistible,  uncalculating,  in- 
stinctive, had  been  stayed  by  a  power  they  could  not 
comprehend.  The  men  and  boys  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  circle  were  retreating,  literally  melting  away 
with  white,  scared  faces,  impressed  with  some  in- 
definable sense  of  disaster. 

Sally  stood  for  a  moment  on  the  crest  of  the  hill 
above  them.  The  low  afternoon  sun  shone  like  a 
great,  transparent  red  globe  through  the  black 
branches  of  the  leafless  trees.  In  that  still  strong 
but  cold  light  the  faces  of  the  men  assumed  a  cer- 
tain ghastly  and  unreal  pallor,  and  their  figures 
seemed  to  stand  out  as  if  silhouetted  against  the  sad, 


334  SALLY    SALT 

austere  hills.  It  was  but  a  second  that  Sally  gazed 
down  upon  them,  and  then  she  flew  down  the  slope. 
Her  hair  had  become  loosened  during  her  ride,  and 
had  slipped  half-way  down  her  back. 

"What  are  you  doing  here,  Sally  Salt?"  called 
one  old  man. 

Sally  stopped  a  little  above  them  on  the  hillside. 

"Not  what  you  are,  Rufe  Eaton/'  she  called  back. 
Then,  as  she  looked  over  the  group,  her  face  sud- 
denly went  a  deadly  white,  her  eyes  shot  sparks  of 
fire. 

"Out  for  a  man-hunt,  aren't  you,  all  of  you? 
Oh,  it's  fine  sport,  big  game,  isn't  it?"  High  and 
clear  rang  her  stinging  tones. 

"We're  out  in  the  cause  of  justice,  Sally  Salt," 
called  back  the  man.  "We're  helping  the  sheriff, 
and  pertecting  our  homes  from  criminals." 

"A  lot  you  care  about  the  crime !"  scoffed  Sally. 
"There's  mighty  few  of  you  here  that  wouldn't  be 
guilty  of  as  bad  or  worse  if  you  only  had  the  chance 
and  the  brains.  I  know  you  all,  every  man  of  you. 
You  want  the  excitement  of  a  man-hunt.  That's  all 
a  mob  ever  does  want.  You  want  to  go  crazy  with 
brutal  passion,  be  drunk  with  it,  and  then  justify 


THE   HUNT    FOR   GRISSOM         335 

yourselves  with  the  plea  of  righteous  indignation. 
Ugh !  You  make  me  so  tired,  and  I'll  bet  you  make 
God  tired!" 

"Why  don't  you  mind  your  own  business,  Sally 
Salt?" 

"It  isn't  enough  for  me,"  she  bantered  sweetly, 
"so  I'm  kind  enough  to  manage  yours,  too." 

"I'd  like  to  see  you  prevent  the  cause  of  justice," 
called  another  man  from  the  center  of  the  group. 
"We're  out  for  Grissom,  the  thief,  and  we're  going 
to  get  him,  and  what's  more,  we're  going  to  string 
him  up  to  the  nearest  tree.  And  if  you  don't  keep 
out  of  this  you  may  get  yourself  jostled  some." 

As  he  finished  there  rose  a  murmur  from  the 
crowd,  low,  swelling  in  volume,  ominous,  implac- 
able, and  the  mass  heaved  heavily  forward  as  one 
man. 

"And  I'd  like  to  see  you  try,  Jack  Wade !"  called 
back  Sally  undaunted.  "Just  go  ahead  and  do  it, 
and  to-morrow  I'll  be  after  the  lot  of  you  like  a 
whirlwind.  I'll  foreclose  the  mortgages  I  hold  on 
your  patches  of  ground.  I'll  see  that  you  pay  back 
the  money  most  of  you  owe  me,  or  I'll  attach  every- 
thing you've  got  to  attach.  When  I  get  through 


336  SALLY    SALT 

with  you  all,  you'll  look  like  the  years  the  locusts 
have  eaten." 

Man  gazed  at  man,  the  pale  glance  of  consterna- 
tion. Their  fingers  curved.  How  gladly  they 
would  have  choked  this  Sally  Salt,  standing  there, 
arrogant,  red-headed,  damnably  successful,  shame- 
lessly, wantonly  dangling  their  common  family 
skeleton  before  their  eyes.  There  was  no  gainsay- 
ing her  threat.  Each  man  read  its  verity  in  the 
other's  averted  gaze.  She  could  put  most  of  them 
out  in  the  roadside  if  she  were  so  minded.  But 
would  she?  Gazing  up  at  her  where  she  stood 
poised  like  some  splendid  avenging  Victory,  each 
man  realized  with  a  sinking  sensation  that  she  prob- 
ably would. 

"Now,  don't  give  me  any  back  talk.  Go  home, 
all  of  you!"  She  waved  them  back  with  hot,  im- 
perious impatience,  and  with  growls,  imprecations, 
muttered  threats,  assertions  of  independence,  they 
dispersed,  moving  in  moody  groups  in  the  direction 
which  led  to  their  various  homes. 

Then  Sally  hastened  down  the  hill  to  the  sheriff, 
who  still  bent  his  ear  against  the  prone  man's  heart. 
She  cast  but  one  glance  at  this  old  man.,  who  lay 


THE   HUNT    FOR    GRISSOM         337 

with  ghastly  face  and  closed  eyes,  and  then  dropped 
on  her  knees  beside  him.  "Oh,"  she  breathed  across 
him,  "it  is  Mr.  Hurd !  What  does  this  mean  ?" 

"It  means,"  said  Washburne,  with  a  hoarse  effort 
to  speak  calmly,  "that  for  some  crazy  reason  the 
old  man  put  on  Grissom's  coat  and  hat  and  led  us  a 
chase.  Threw  us  clear  off  the  track.  I  wouldn't 
have  thought  he  was  that  smart." 

"But  what  is  it?"  faltered  Sally.  "Why  is  he 
lying  here  ?" 

"Shot,"  said  Washburne.  "I'm  afraid  he's  done 
for.  I — did — it,"  in  a  dry  whisper.  He  tore  up  a 
handful  of  grass  and  threw  it  from  him.  "Hilda 
will  never — "  His  voice  broke. 

"Has  any  one  gone  for  a  doctor?" 

"I  sent  one  of  my  men,"  Washburne  replied. 
"There's  nothing  to  do  till  he  comes.  You  won't 
need  me,  and,  by  God,  I  can't  stay  here  to  see  him 
die."  He  flung  himself  into  the  trees. 

There  was  silence  for  a  time,  and  then  the  old 
man  lifted  his  wonderful,  luminous  eyes  to  hers. 
He  began  to  speak ;  his  voice  was  a  little  stronger. 

"I  don't  have  to  travel  to  find  out  what  lies  be- 
yond the  hills.  I  know  now,  at  last."  His  glance 


338  SALLY    SALT 

held  some  radiant  realization;  his  voice,  feeble, 
gasping,  failing,  sang  a  paean  of  triumph. 

"When  I  found  they  were  after  Grissom,  I 
wanted  to  help  him.  I  had  to  help  him,  for  I  had 
fold  him  where  Hilda  was.  I  didn't  care  for  Gris- 
som—  I  never  thought  much  about  him,  but  when 
he  was  in  danger,  when  it  came  to  me  that  I  could 
save  him,  why,  everything  was  changed.  In  giving 
all  I  had,  I  found  everything.  It  was  as  if  I  had 
touched  a  spring  and  a  door  opened  into  the  world 
that  I  had  only  seen  in  glimpses.  It  was  like  going 
from  shadow  into  sunlight.  And  I  knew  at  last 
what  lay  beyond  the  hills.  Sally  Salt,"  his  voice 
was  weaker,  but  his  eyes  gazed  past  her  into  those 
worlds  whose  shining  portals  opened  so  easily  at  the 
sesame  "sacrifice,"  "what  lies  beyond  the  hills  is 
love — love,  that  lies  above  and  about  and  beyond 
everything.  That  is  all  there  is." 

And,  having  preached  his  gospel  to  the  only  liv- 
ing creature  near  him,  and  given  as  freely  as  he  had 
received,  albeit  painfully  and  with  effort,  the  old 
seeker  presently  set  forth  on  his  farther  quest. 


CHAPTER   XXIII 

ANTHONY   COMES   HOME 

LUCY  and  John  Witherspoon  walked,  as  had  been 
their  wont  for  many  months,  up  and  down  the 
garden  paths.  The  paths,  as  well  as  the  flower 
beds,  were  covered  with  snow,  the  sky  was  dull  and 
leaden,  and  an  east  wind  blew  piercingly  and  sang 
an  eery  and  desolate  song  through  the  shrubbery. 

Witherspoon  looked  down  a  bit  anxiously  at 
Lucy.  She  was  so  muffled  in  furs  that  only  the  tip 
of  her  nose  and  her  eyes  were  visible ;  nevertheless, 
the  wind  was  incredibly  penetrating.  "Sure  you're 
not  cold  ?"  he  asked  for  perhaps  the  twentieth  time. 

"Sure,  sure,  sure,"  she  insisted  merrily,  "and 
even  if  I  were  I  would  prefer  it  to  the  warm  fire- 
s:de,  for  Mrs.  Nesbit  is  sitting  on  one  side  of  the 
hearth  and  Mrs.  Hill  on  the  other,  and  they  are 
having  an  undisturbed  feast  of  little  cakes  and 
coffee,  and  gossip  is  flowing  like  wine.  They  were 

339 


340  SALLY    SALT 

talking  symptoms  and  scandal  when  I  left,  and  by 
this  time  they  have  probably  buried  every  man  of 
us.  Oh,  John,"  she  shivered  and  slipped  her  hand 
through  his  arm,  "I  simply  can  not  listen  to  them 
when  Anthony  is  lying  so  ill.  Is  he  any  better  this 
afternoon?" 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  said  Witherspoon  gravely. 

"So  many  unhappy  things  have  happened  since 
last  summer,"  said  Lucy  in  a  mournful  little  voice 
that  sounded  as  if  tears  were  very  near  the  surface. 

"And  not  the  least  of  them,  to  me,"  Witherspoon 
looked  down  at  her  with  a  tender,  half-sorry  smile, 
"is  that  you've  abandoned  our  little  romance,  thrown 
it  aside  as  you  used  to  throw  your  dolls  away  as 
soon  as  you  had  licked  the  paint  off  their  cheeks 
and  jerked  off  their  wigs  and  punched  them  with  the 
scissors  to  see  if  they  were  stuffed  with  sawdust." 

"You  always  laughed  at  me  then,"  interpolated 
Lucy. 

"But  you  see  I  do  not  laugh  now.  You  see,  it  is 
my  doll,  my  most  cherished  doll,  in  this  instance." 

"But  John,"  Lucy's  pretty  eyes  were  rather  round 
and  shocked,  "it  would  have  been  heartless  for  us 
to  have  kept  on  playing  when  there  has  been  this 


ANTHONY   COMES    HOME          341 

sorrow — old  Mr.  Kurd's  tragic  death,  Anthony's 
illness,  and  Sally's  grief." 

"So  it  has  been  only  play,  a  pastime  to  you?" 
and,  half-laughing  as  his  voice  was,  it  was  still  half- 
sorry. 

There  was  no  answer,  but  in  the  little  line  of 
cheek  that  showed  just  above  her  nose  and  below 
her  eyes  there  was  a  stain  of  crimson.  "You — 
you — "  she  was  obviously  embarrassed,  "the  last 
time  we  played — "  she  checked  herself  with  a  quick 
look  at  him,  "the  last  time  we  were  in  the  ro- 
mance— "  She  paused  and  wrinkled  her  brow  in 
the  frantic  effort  to  remember;  then  illumination 
came,  a  lightning-flash,  and  she  buried  her  nose  in 
her  muff. 

"Yes,  the  last  time,"  Witherspoon  had  the  air  of 
kindly  refreshing  her  memory,  "I  was  pleading  for 
a  kiss,  and  you  pretended  to  be  terribly  shocked,  and 
ran  up-stairs,  and  just  as  I  was  feeling  enormously 
depressed,  you  put  your  head  out  of  the  window 
and  mocked  me.  You  said : 

40 

"  'Fain  would  I  climb  but  that  I  fear  to  fall ; 
If  thy  heart  fail  thee,  do  not  climb  at  all.'  " 


342  SALLY    SALT 

"Yes,  and  you  called  back  that  not  to  climb  would 
be  an  admission  of  heart-failure,  and  you  began  to 
climb  up  the  porch,  and  Mrs.  Hill  came  in  the  gate 
and  saw  you." 

"My  grandmother  taught  me  to  knit  when  I  was 
a  boy,"  said  Witherspoon  with  apparent  irrelevance, 
"and  I  know  that  you  must  always  take  up  a 
dropped  stitch." 

Before  Lucy  grasped  the  import  of  his  words,  he 
stooped  and  gently  kissed  the  visible  rim  of  cheek 
just  below  the  eye. 

A  blast  more  bitter  and  piercing  than  all  the  icy 
winds  of  that  chilling  afternoon  blew  from  the 
sullen  skies,  but  neither  Lucy  nor  Witherspoon 
knew  it.  She  only  pressed  her  cheek  more  deeply 
into  his  shoulder,  and  he 'kissed  her  eyes  this  time. 

"Why,  John,"  Lucy  lifted  her  head  and  gazed 
about  her  wonderingly,  "how  much  more  beautiful 
the  garden  looks  now  than  it  did  in  summer.  Then 
it  was  full  of  lilies  and  roses  and  butterflies,  and 
commonplace  things,  and  now,  look  at  the  beautiful, 
smooth,  white  snow,  and  the  lovely  bare,  black 
shrubbery."  She  gazed  about  her  with  eyes  that 
proclaimed  her  the  discoverer  of  a  new  world. 


ANTHONY   COMES    HOME          343 

"And  look  at  the  sky,  Lucy."  Witherspoon's 
voice  exceeded  hers  in  sincerity  and  enthusiasm.  "I 
never  saw  such  an  exquisite  gray.  And  what  de- 
licious air!" 

"Ah,  yes."  Lucy's  tone  was  one  of  complete 
satisfaction  with  the  existing  order.  "The  winter 
world  is  the  real  world  of  romance.  And,  dear 
John,  how  much  better  the  real  is  than  the  play 
romance !" 

"And  wasn't  the  play  romance  the  least  bit  real 
to  you?"  asked  Witherspoon.  "It  was  all  real  to 
me." 

"Certainly  it  was  real,"  said  Lucy  promptly,  "only 

i 
this  is  realer." 

Streatham  was  indeed  very  ill.  It  had  been  de- 
cided that  it  were  better  not  to  attempt  to  move  him 
from  the  cabin,  so  he  lay  there,  surrounded  by  every 
comfort  which  Sally  could  devise,  and  she  and 
Hilda  nursed  him. 

Sally  had  naturally  assumed  charge  of  every- 
thing. She  would  inevitably  have  done  so  under 
any  circumstances,  but  in  this  case  it  was  necessary. 
There  was  no  other  alternative.  Hilda  endeavored 


344  SALLY    SALT 

to  help  her,  to  assist  her  in  every  possible  way.  She 
was  so  anxious  to  do  just  as  she  was  told,  so  obedi- 
ent and  tractable,  and  so  conspicuously,  even  bril- 
liantly inefficient,  that  Sally's  small  endowment  of 
patience  was  almost  spent.  More  and  more  fre- 
quently she  suggested  to  Hilda  that  it  were  the  part 
of  wisdom  for  her  to  rest  and  husband  her  strength. 
More  and  more  she  relied  upon  the  deft  and  skilful 
and  silent  Wilmerdine  for  assistance;  and  Hilda, 
quite  speechless  for  the  most  part,  with  wistful, 
appealing  eyes,  would,  upon  finding  this  or  that 
little  duty  delegated  to  Wilmerdine,  attempt  some 
new  task  and  prove  more  obviously  than  ever  her 
almost  pathetic  ineptitude. 

Sally  had  grown  so  used  to  seeing  her  creep  about, 
silent,  humble,  almost  apathetic,  that  one  morning, 
when  Hilda  beckoned  her  from  the  sick  chamber, 
she  was  so  surprised  at  this  evidence  of  initiative 
that  she  merely  motioned  Wilmerdine  to  take  her 
place  by  Anthony's  bedside  and  followed  Hilda  into 
the  little  kitchen.  There  she  looked  about  her,  ex- 
pecting to  see  some  sign  of  disaster  and  to  hear  a 
confession  of  Hilda's  latest  blunder.  But,  thanks 
to  Wilmerdine,  everything  was  in  spotless  order; 
the  room  was  warm  and  bright,  a  good  fire  burned, 


ANTHONY   COMES    HOME          345 

for  it  was  very  cold  without,  and  the  tea-kettle  hissed 
pleasantly  upon  the  stove. 

Sally  looked  at  Hilda  with  some  surprise,  and 
then  looked  again;  for  there  was  in  her  bearing  a 
subtle  but  undoubted  change.  Ever  since  her 
father's  death  and  the  beginning  of  Anthony's  ill- 
ness she  had  conveyed  the  impression  of  some  sad 
and  drooping  flower.  Everything  about  her  had 
drooped — head,  eyelids,  mouth,  shoulders;  but  now 
her  shoulders  were  straight,  her  head  uplifted.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  been  refreshed  by  some  revivify- 
ing and  potent  ichor.  She  looked  at  Sally,  and  in 
that  glance  was  something  so  remote  and — yes, 
authoritative,  that  a  queer  little  chill  ran  down  over 
her  listener. 

"I've  been  all  wrong,  Mrs.  Salt,"  said  the  girl 
simply  and  directly.  "I  haven't  been  doing  right, 
and  I  know  it  now.  I  woke  up  early  this  morning, 
long  before  it  was  light,  and  it  came  to  me  all  at 
once ;  I  don't  know  how,  but  it  was  all  clear  to  me. 
I  ve  been  trying  to  help  him  get  well,  trying  to  help 
you  nurse  him,  trying  to  do  everything  in  your  way. 
And  you  see  how  useless  I've  been.  I've  just  broken 
and  spoiled  everything  I  touched.  That  is  because 
I  wasn't  trying  to  help  in  my  own  way.  You  can 


346  SALLY    SALT 

do  all  these  things  that  I  can't  because  it's  your  way. 
You  can  make  him  comfortable  and  give  him  the 
nursing  he  needs,  and  I  can  not.  But,"  and  there 
came  a  radiance  to  her  face,  a  light  in  her  eyes,  "I 
can  do  something  for  him  that  you  can't  do." 

The  sincerity  of  her  tone,  the  joy  in  her  face, 
precluded  doubt.  Sally  leaned  forward  and  clasped 
her  hands.  "Oh,  Hilda,  what?"  she  besought. 
"His  fever  is  higher;  he  is  certainly  worse.  What 
can  you  do?" 

"I  can  sing,"  said  Hilda  with  a  solemn  fervor. 
"Oh,  why  haven't  I  thought  of  it  before!  Why? 
Because  I  was  trying  to  be  some  one  else,  and  I'm 
only  Hilda,  who  can  do  just  one  thing." 

"Oh."  There  was  a  blank  and  bitter  disappoint- 
ment in  Sally's  voice.  Her  hands  fell  at  her  side. 
"Oh,  yes,  you  might  soothe  him,  if  he  were  able  to 
bear  it." 

Hilda  shook  her  head  and  smiled  a  faint,  high 
smile  of  undaunted  assurance.  "You  don't  under- 
stand," she  began. 

Wilmerdine  appeared  noiselessly  in  the  doorway. 
"I  guess  you  better  come  in  to  Mr.  Anthony,  Miss 
Sally;  he's  getting  awful  restless." 

Sally  breathed  a  conscience-stricken  exclamation, 


ANTHONY   COMES    HOME          347 

and  would  have  hastened  in  to  Anthony's  chamber, 
but  Hilda  was  before  her.  "I  will  go,"  she  said. 
''Please  wait  here."  She  closed  the  door  between 
them. 

Sally  stood  irresolute,  striving  to  comprehend 
this  new  Hilda  and  understand  her  strange  attitude. 
And  while  she  hesitated  she  became  aware  of  a 
silence  which  seemed  to  have  fallen  over  the  house, 
a  silence  which  yet  seemed  to  hold  the  beat  of 
mighty  wings.  Then  there  rose  the  sound  of 
Hilda's  singing,  low,  pure,  as  if  it  flowed  from  some 
infinite  ocean  of  peace,  tideless,  serene,  deep  upon 
deeps  of  calm ;  and  then,  from  the  heart  of  that  un- 
fathomable and  boundless  peace,  there  rose  and 
swelled  a  new  note,  a  high  command  of  life.  It 
was  like  chimes  of  silver  bells,  ringing,  swinging 
from  some  cloud-built  tower  of  Heaven.  Free 
from  all  stain  of  earth,  unscorched  by  any  knowl- 
edge of  grief  or  sin,  Hilda's  voice  on  wings  of  joy 
floated  upward  through  all  light  and  touched  the 
mountain  peaks  and  stars. 

And  Sally  listened,  awed,  believing.  All  about 
her,  through  the  cabin,  she  still  felt  the  beat  of 
wings.  Ah,  this  was  no  place  for  her,  who  had  de- 
manded pi  oof  before  she  would  believe  and  forgive. 


348  SALLY    SALT 

Let  her  take  herself  and  her  doubts  away.  What 
place  had  she  among  cherubim  and  seraphim  ?  How 
could  she  bring  her  gift  to  the  altar,  who  had  only 
forgiven  when  the  certainty  of  Anthony's  innocence 
had  been  forced  upon  her? 

Throwing  a  heavy  cloak  about  her,  she  stole  from 
the  house  and  into  the  forest.  The  snow  covered 
the  ground.  The  trees,  bare,  bereft  of  their  leaves, 
stretched  away  in  every  direction,  brown  at  hand, 
mere  purple  shadows  in  the  distance.  The  instinct 
to  be  near  Anthony  prevented  her  from  wandering 
far  away  from  the  cabin,  so,  folding  her  cloak 
more  closely  about  her,  she  sat  down  upon  a  fallen 
log. 

The  awe  lingered  with  her,  and  the  mighty  wings 
still  seemed  to  encompass  her.  She  looked  up  at 
the  smooth,  bare  branches  above  her  head.  If 
Hilda  had  sung  out  there  as  she  had  sung  yonder 
to  Anthony,  would  not  those — could  not  those  naked 
boughs  have  burst  into  bud  and  blossom  at  that  call 
of  life?  Would  not  the  Spring  have  smiled  where 
Winter  frowned  so  austerely?  Almost  she  be- 
lieved it. 

How  long  she  sat  there  she  did  not  know,  but  at 


ANTHONY   COMES    HOME          349 

last  she  heard  her  name,  and  looked  up  to  see  Hilda 
running  toward  her. 

"His  fever  is  gone.  He  has  slept  a  long  time,  and 
now  he  is  conscious  and  asking  for  you,"  panted 
the  girl,  her  face  radiant. 

Together  they  hastened  to  the  cabin;  but  it  was 
Sally  alone  who  entered  Streatham's  chamber. 

"Sally,"  he  murmured,  his  eyes  seeking  hers. 

She  dropped  beside  the  bed  and,  lifting  his  hand, 
laid  her  cheek  against  it;  her  eyes  were  wet  with 
tears. 

"I'm  back  from  a  far  country,  Sally,"  with  his 
old  whimsical  twisted  smile. 

"You  shall  always  go  here,  there,  everywhere  you 
please!"  she  cried,  throwing  her  arms  about  him. 
"I'm  tired  of  trying  to  boss  people." 

"Sure  of  it,  S — Sally?"  How  his  eyes  laughed! 
"But  don't  send  me  away  soon.  Let  me  stay  with 
you  here  a  long  time.  I've  been  so  tired,  Sally,"  he 
nestled  his  head  more  deeply  in  the  hollow  of  her 
arm,  "and  you're  so  maternal." 

THE   END 


A     000110706     9 


